Anatomy of a Death Eater
by Rose Rovente
Summary: A prank orchestrated by Percy goes terribly wrong and George is dead, but Fred insists that he's still alive. Bill gets sick, Charlie crawls into a bottle and Remus is hogtied and dragged away to a werewolf camp. Rated M for language, sadness, creepiness.
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: I am but an angsty and melodramatic puppet master, cruelly toying with characters that I do not claim to own, nor make money off of. Forgive me, for I know not what I do.

**ANATOMY OF A DEATH EATER**

CHAPTER ONE 

PROLOGUE 

It would be so cruel!

For that one moment, Percy understood his twin brothers. Standing there, staring at the simmering cauldron with cheeks burning, he knew the pre-prank anticipation his brothers must feel, and why they must yearn for it. 

It was truly exhilarating, looking at the cauldron's bubbling, shiny surface, his hand hovering over it, a little pinch of black powder between his thumb and forefinger. A truly wicked thing to do, he knew it, but it would be ever so funny. It would be funny to him, at least, if no one else. 

Maybe his mother would lecture him. Perhaps she would sit him down in the kitchen and scream so loudly that the whole house would hear. He wished she would. He wanted to hear how much he'd disappointed his mother. He wanted to hear how she didn't know what on earth had gotten into him, and what _was _he thinking, and did he really find his little prank to be funny? Did he really find it amusing, not only to ruin the opening of Fred and George's joke shop, but their eighteenth birthday as well? 

Yes, mum. 

It was very amusing. The twins, the happy twinsies, would feel that pain for once. The joke would be on them. Percy smiled, and with a light feeling in his head, let the black powder fall into the cauldron and soak through. 

Complimentary sample of Screaming Gumballs: ruined. 

Weasley Wizard Wheezes Grand Opening: cancelled. 

When Fred or George tested them in the morning, instead of the gumballs crying out when bitten, they would become as sticky and foul-tasting as tar. Percy could see them now, one or the other, both if he was lucky, trying to pull their jaws apart and picking the goo out of their teeth all day. 

A mean little prank, perhaps, but harmless. 

And funny! 

******

The room was enormous, easily as big as the Great Hall (_there you go, thinking childish thoughts again),_ but the ceiling wasn't enchanted to look like the sky above. The ceiling was a swirling, sickly orange, mingling with an even nastier green- abscess green, vomit green. 

The ceiling clearly wasn't meant to be looked at.

(_gazing upward tends to make one think of bigger and better things)_

He looked, regardless, felt his stomach sour, and they (_my brothers, my new brothers) _took him by the elbows, walked him forward, onward to where the red carpet led, to The Birth, the great gold leafed throne-like chair where he would become his Master's servant.

(_there are no bigger and better things)_. 

He was nervous (_there is no room for such emotions)._

For a moment his shoes seemed to catch on the red carpeting, but with a smooth jerk they (_my brothers, my new brothers)_ freed him, and he was walking again. He had no sensation of moving his legs, but knew he must be moving of his own free will (_this is the right thing! don't you be a coward), _for they would not steer him wrong. 

His Master would never steer him wrong. 

It burned, it burned like seeing his brother, laying dead on the floor (_it's alright now!), _but he did not flinch. He could not flinch, lest he displease his Master. It was not so hard, to not flinch, not so hard at all, for underneath the burn was a tickling, a somehow giddy sensation that all was well. 

He looked down at his arm, seconds earlier so pasty and skeletal, and saw strength. Strength in the black skull, and strength in the snake.

His guilt drained out of him; he saw it himself, it was blue, royal blue, flowing down his legs and out onto the floor (_there is no room for guilt)_, spreading with the thickness of blood (_only this)_. 

His wrong was fixed. 

(_only this)_


	2. The Visitor

DISCLAIMER: I have borrowed this characters (most of them), and do not wish to make money off them, as I do not wish to be sued. 

****

CHAPTER TWO

THE VISITOR 

There was something important about that Saturday, he could feel it, but was in no condition to remember.

Charlie stared at the ceiling, spread-eagle on the floor, willing the room to stop moving so damn fast. How was he to locate another beer with the walls spinning so relentlessly? Downright bloody irritating, it was. 

"Beer," he mumbled, realizing there were still people around him. 

"Beer? Chuck, get up and finish this game!" said his flat mate, Scott. 

"Where's my money?" Charlie slurred, "And aren't we a little old for Exploding Snap?" 

"It don't count if you can't get off the bloody floor," came the reply, "You know the rules." 

Yes, he knew the rules. He had not truly out-drank Scott unless they were both standing, thus, if he could not stand, he would not get paid. He rolled over on his side and was dangerously close to vomiting, but his one good lurch aided him into a sitting position. With that accomplished, he used the table's edge to lug himself into a chair. 

"I'm sitting up. Now where is it?" 

"Christ, Chuck, you drunkard," said Ian, who sat across from him, "Let's finish the game!" 

"I'm too old," repeated Charlie thickly, "to play this goddamn-" 

"-'twas your idea, you inebriated fuck. Deal up, and shut your mouth!" 

Charlie was arranging the cards haphazardly in his clumsy hands when there was a knock on the door. It sobered him right up, like a bucket of icy water.

It was two short knocks, a rolling knock, then a knock with two fists. He recognized it as the special knock used by his family, when he was in hiding with them; a knock to be used only in the unlikely event that someone had to leave and return later. He'd only heard it when they'd practiced it, so long ago. 

Ian and Scott glanced at the door with disinterest, then at Charlie. 

"Charlie," said Scott with a sly smile, "I'll give you double your money if you can make it to the door without running into anything." 

The bet was won, though very slowly. In truth, Charlie didn't want to know who it was. He feared bad news. He really just wanted the visitor to go away. He treated the door as if it would attack him, edging toward it with paranoia. Ian elbowed Scott merrily, and they shared a private joke about how Charlie must be afraid it was an old girlfriend, or an illegitimate child left on the doorstep. 

Charlie opened the door just a crack and saw a very thin, pale, filthy, unshaven young man. His odor wafted in the door, enough that Charlie crinkled his nose. The young man had a head full of fat, red, obviously unintentional dreadlocks. He wore green Muggle army fatigues and a black cloak that was in tatters. There was a large hiking pack on his back. Charlie stared blankly at him for a long moment before realizing who it was. 

He also remembered what was significant about that day. It was Fred's twenty-fifth birthday. 

"_Fred_?" 

"Alright, Charlie?" said Fred. He briefly threw his arm around Charlie, then walked past him into the house. Tossing his bag aside, he plopped down on the sofa with an exhausted sigh.

Scott and Ian looked him up and down in a distasteful manner. The whole deck of Snap cards exploded, unnoticed. 

"What's up, boys?" Fred asked, a smile on his dirty face, craning around, over the back of the sofa to look at them. "Drinking already? Why, it's hardly four in the afternoon." 

Scott rose quickly from the table and took a swig of his beer. He turned to Charlie, who was still dumbfounded at the front door. "Charlie! Since when have you taken to inviting hobos to our flat?"

"I thought this here was a _restricted _colony, dragons and their keepers only!" Ian exclaimed. 

Charlie scratched the back of his neck. "He's on my list..." he muttered. 

"You put hobos on your list?" Scott gestured at Fred, slopping beer all over the charred Snap cards. "Charlie, I knew you were a bit soft-hearted, but-" 

"-he's my little brother," Charlie said, shaking off his surprise, "My little brother Fred." 

"Yes, well," garbled Ian, who was quite drunk himself, "Your little brother Fred _stinks_. Will he be staying long?" 

Charlie glared at them. "You'll kindly not be such an ass. He's only just gotten here. We'll find him a shower and something clean to wear. How are you, Fredsie?" 

"Fine, and you?" 

"Alright. You want some food?" 

Fred waved his hand dismissively. 

"You look like you could use some food," Charlie pressed.

"No, thank you, I've just eaten."

"He says he just ate, Chuck," offered Ian, "Best move right along to the showering." 

Charlie ignored him. "Still traveling, I see, Fredsie?"

Fred tensed, staring at him with large, tired eyes. "I'll never give up."

Charlie sighed. That was not what he'd meant at all. He decided it best not respond, hoping that Fred would just let it go. They'd been through this with him a million times, all of them: Mum, Dad, Ginny, Ron, Bill, even Percy. 

"Say, Chuck," said Scott, stumbling over to them, "Is this the brother you've told me about? The _loony _one?" 

Fred gasped and glared at Charlie for an explanation. Charlie shook his head, running his hands through his hair. 

"You're as daft as you are a drunkard, Scott. You're _pissed. _I never said anything like that." Charlie shot him a warning look. "Get lost, both of you. Let me catch up with my brother." 

At first Ian and Scott looked insulted, but their drunken faces relaxed, their eyes half-mast, and they left the room, jeering to each other about their flat mate. 

"Don't mind those slobbering wasted gits, Freds," Charlie said embarrassedly, "So..." 

Fred was still looking at him with that same expression. "You're wrong, Charlie, George isn't dead. I'm going to find him." 

Charlie sighed again. Of course, being Fred, he would not let the subject go. 

"You held his body, Freds," he said with as much conviction as he could muster. Admittedly, the conviction was nil, having repeated it so many times. 

"I don't remember anything, except that he was gone. And I'm going to find him."

"I buried him myself, Freds."

"I don't remember anything." 

"Bill and Ron and I, in the back yard."

"You're wrong." 

"We buried him, Freds. Under the tree that was planted when you were born."

"Shut up." 

"Alright," Charlie replied sadly, trying not to sound patronizing, "I hope you do find him, Fred. I sincerely hope you do. You want a butterbeer or something?" 

Fred seemed to sink into himself. He squeezed his bony knee caps, eyes blank, jaw working. His knuckles were turning white. On his filthy, sallow face was an eerily determined look, until suddenly he relaxed and took a lumpy dreadlock into his fingers, studying it, twirling the loose hair around larger clumps. 

Charlie was beginning to wish he'd ignored the door. He'd been perfectly happy, drunk and brooding over the state of the world. General, indirect things to worry about. He didn't want to be reminded of this personal pain- Fred's pain, his pain. It hurt much worse, even seven years later, than any blasted state of affairs.

There was a thick silence.

"Glad you decided to visit. It's been awhile." Charlie lied

"Yeah. Thought it was time to catch up. So how's the family?" 

"Ron's wife is expecting," 

Fred rolled his eyes. 

"What?" Charlie asked irritably. 

"Bringing a child into _this _world," he scoffed, "are they still in hiding?" 

"For as long as it takes." 

"As long as it takes for what?" 

"For Voldemort to be defeated." Charlie glared at his brother, daring him to press the issue further. Of course, being Fred, he did. 

He snorted. "They'll be in hiding forever." 

"I don't want to discuss politics with you- damn it, Fred, why did you come here?" 

"All of them? _Still?_" He asked, unfazed by his brother's anger. 

"No one's left since Percy." 

"_Percy_." Fred spat, his face darkening. 

"I don't want to wallow with you, Frederick. If you came here to share your misery, you can leave right now."

"What about Bill?" 

Fred had a frustrating way of hearing only what he wanted to, Charlie thought.

"Still in hiding," he said shortly, fuming. 

"Why doesn't he go and fight?" 

"He's ill." 

"He's _always _ill." 

"And who's fault is that?" Charlie snapped.

Fred stared at him. His eyes glistened. "We didn't know what we were doing." 

"NEITHER DID PERCY!" Charlie cried. 

"PERCY?" bellowed a voice from outside the room, "PERCY WEASLEY?" 

Scott came stumbling in, beer in hand, a Muggle baseball cap loose and backward on his head. He belched loudly. "Listen, I'm sor-" hiccup "-sorry I was so rude earlier. It's lovely to meet you, little brother Fred." 

"Charmed," said Fred curtly, ignoring Scott's hand. 

Scott roared with laughter. "A hobo with dignity is he?" 

"Scott, go away." 

"Percy Weasley, the new Minister of Magic, ain't he? Why didn't you tell me that bungling idiot was your brother? I should have known!" 

Fred's eyes bulged. His jaw dropped.

"I _have _told you, Scott," Charlie said through clenched teeth, "Now _shut up _and _go away." _

Once again his flat mate's deep throated, gurgling cackle echoed off the walls. He slammed down his beer, sloshing it all over the end table. "I don't blame you for not saying anything. The git's only been Minister for a few months, and has managed to mess up nearly every damned thing, hasn't he? Not surprising... you'd have to already be rather... lacking in intelligence, to take on that duty in these times. Probably how he got the job, eh Charlie?" Scott guffawed. 

Fred sat straight up, jerking his thumb at Scott. "Is this idiot serious? Percy's the _Minister of Magic?_"

"Christ, where have you been?" slurred Scott 

"SCOTT WILL YOU PLEASE GO AWAY!" Charlie roared, looking around for his wand. 

"Alright, alright," Scott giggled, holding his hands out in front of him. Beer splashed on the floor. He made a prompt exit. 

"Was that beer-flinging jackass telling the truth?" Fred demanded. 

"Yes, Fred, he was." 

"Merlin's fucking beard..."

"Where _have _you been?" 

"Around. Everywhere," Fred's eyes narrowed, "You know what I've been doing, Charlie. Percy can't be... he can't be the damn..."

"_Another _excuse for you not to fight," Charlie said nastily. 

"I don't need excuses. I have more important things to think about." 

It was Charlie's turn to roll his eyes. 

"And why don't _you _go and fight, Charlie?" 

"I _am." _

"How?" 

"As soon as they find a replacement for me, I'm leaving." 

Fred averted his eyes, using two fingers to scrutinized one lumpy dreadlock, his feet tapping furiously on the floor. He chewed on his tongue, wrapping the loose hair round and round the clump. "You're off to commit suicide," he said quietly after awhile. 

"Absolutely not. They have a very intense training program-"

"-rubbish! Who's the brains behind that, bloody _Percy_?" 

Charlie ignored him. "-they have a very intense training program. I won't be allowed anywhere near a Death Eater until I'm fully prepared. And Percy is doing just fine." 

Fred shook his head in disbelief, which enraged his older brother. "Good luck to you, then." 

"Yeah, you too." Charlie spat.

They sat in silence, Charlie trying to control his temper, his head throbbing. He looked as his brother, playing with his dreadlock, so thin and unhealthy, and damned himself, for he soon felt pity replacing his anger. 

Fred _was _loony. Charlie thought of the way he used to be, the way _they, _the twins, used to be, and felt a lump in his throat. He realized it didn't make sense to be angry at his brother for being delusional and mentally ill. It was truly pathetic, how long he'd been searching for his dead twin. What else could Charlie do, but be patient with him, and try not to judge?

"Well," he said finally, greatly wishing the mood to lighten, "Do you want a shower, then? Scott was right about one thing, you really do stink something awful." 

Fred chuckled. "So people keep telling me."

"Why did you come here, Fred? Surely not to celebrate your birthday." 

"No. I'm waiting," 

"For what?" 

"I'm not sure." __

Charlie nodded, guiltily hoping that whatever it was, it wouldn't take long.

__

Well, what do you think? Tell me tell me tell me!!! Review review review!!! In case you were wondering, no, this is not at all a sequel to "Undone." However, if you haven't read that, you should :)


	3. The Man In the Corner

DISCLAIMER: I'm disclaiming, it's so fun, I'm disclaiming on the run, I'm disclaiming on a chair, I'm disclaiming in the air, I'm disclaiming all around, disclaiming all around the town disclaim oh disclaim oh DISCLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIM!! The Harry Potter book belong to JK Rowlings, and _The Good Earth _was written by Pearl S. Buck.

****

CHAPTER THREE

THE MAN IN THE CORNER

The mark burned.

He had to sign. He didn't want to sign (_it no longer matters what you want)_, but he knew he had to or all would be lost (_I'll take it all back) _-how could he do this- his quill was trembling (_you're so weak; a disappointment)_ in his hand, it was moving- it was signing his name. It was done. He was rewarded; that giddiness again, the giddy burning. It was torture as well as reward. He felt the relief; he knew that all would be well _(my wrong is truly righted now) _but in the back of his mind, clear as day, one twin still shook the other, one still cried over the other, one still begged the other to get up, and one twin would still never again rise from the floor. 

_(never?) _

Percy handed over the paper, and the residue of guilt was washed clean _(you killed them both)_.

For now. 

************

Sean found himself fascinated by a graying man in the corner. 

The others were screaming endlessly, tugging endlessly on the sliding doors of the moving boxcar, endlessly begging deaf ears, demanding when? When will we be let out? 

Through a vent he saw the moon, nearly full. He thought clouds would be nice, so that he could ignore it, for though he sat quietly, just like the man in the corner, fear was welling inside him, too. Would they be let out of the train in time, or was it in the official's plans that this car should be filled with gore? 

If that were so, Sean hoped he would remember nothing. He shuddered to think of what would happen- a confined space, stuffed to the brim with frightened, trapped werewolves... 

The man in the corner removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his nose, folded it neatly, and replaced it. Sean had watched him do this all day. He would read his book, _The Good Earth,_ (which Sean had squinted to read off the cover) and wipe his nose, oblivious to the hysterics going on around him. A few hundred times someone had stepped on him, bumped him, or, agitated by the man's calmness, had taken the book and thrown it across the room. The man had barely winced, or had gently shoved the offending party out of his way, or had adjusted his spectacles, retrieved the book and continued reading. 

Sean was thankful for him. If he had been unable to draw strength from this man, he might be going mad like the others. Watching the man in the corner kept him sane. He was sure it couldn't last forever, however; the fear made sure of that. He didn't know where he was being taken, if anywhere, or why. 

Also, deep in the back of his mind, Sean was fearing the man would crack. He was waiting for the man to jump up at any moment and beat someone to death with his book, or strangle someone with his handkerchief. He almost wanted him to. It would certainly provide relief from the monotony. 

Two days now they'd been on the train. Two moons, hanging threateningly in the sky. 

Yesterday had been worse, Sean had to admit. The other werewolves, since their wands had been taken away, had tried to escape without, and had almost welded the doors shut as the metal melted under the heat of their magic. They had popped blood vessels trying to Disapparate; then screamed out that it was not possible.

Sean would have to take their word for it. He had been just days away from his first Apparation lesson, when Ministry officials had busted into his house and drug him away. 

"We've come for the werewolf," They'd said, and pushed his father to the floor. They had not had to ask which one was Sean, though he was fair-haired and grey-eyed like the rest of his family. They'd known just who to take. 

Sean figured bitterly that he must have some sort of look or smell to him, something that set him apart from regular wizards. His mother told him he was just being self-conscious, that no one could possibly tell. He was a beautiful young man, she'd told him, and they loved him unconditionally. His father often joked, whenever Sean was choked with self-pity, that if they didn't love him, surely they would have just left him in the woods. Sean had believed them, but doubt tugged at the back of his mind. 

When his family had seemed so terrified of the officials, so distressed that he was being taken away, were they faking it? Had they known? Had they actually _hired _these people to have him removed?

His father had also told him that he'd get used to being a werewolf. Like his father could really understand. Ten years, and he felt no closer to being at peace with his wretched body then at his first transformation. 

He wondered if the man in the corner was in denial, like some of the others; the others ran about, knocking people out of the way, tearing at the walls, insisting that they were not werewolves, that they had been wrongly taken away from their homes. Sean wondered why he didn't just go over and ask. What had he to lose? His mind? Hah. 

So he got up, stepping on hands and legs, tripping over sleeping bodies, not bothering to apologize, and he sat next to the man. 

"How do you remain so calm?" he asked. 

The man seemed to finish the final sentences in his chapter before looking at him, then answered, "How is it that _you_ remain so calm?"

"Well, I-I guess-" Sean faltered. The man had such piercing eyes, like he could read his mind, but they were very kind. "-I... I guess I don't know." 

The man smiled. "Nor do I. It's awfully loud in here. Perhaps I don't wish to contribute to the noise levels." 

Sean found himself laughing. The werewolves nearby eyed the two with contempt. 

"Who can tell, anyway. What's your name, kid?" The man asked, still smiling. 

Sean told him. The man removed his glasses, putting them neatly in their case, then into his robes. Sean realized that the man was not as old as he'd thought. Surely not old enough to be completely gray. 

"Sir-"

"-call me Remus." 

"Uh, Remus, sir, may I ask you a question that might come off as rude? Well, actually, two questions." Sean asked tentatively. 

"Certainly, Sean," the man laced his fingers, clearly ready to listen. 

"Well, the first one, sir, is, do you know that your- I mean... do you know what you are? I mean- er- are you in denial?" Sean wished immediately that he could take the words back. He mentally slapped himself for being so tactless. 

A look of mild confusion came over Remus' face. "Denial about what?" 

"Nothing," Sean said a little too quickly, breathing a sigh of relief. 

Remus smiled knowingly. "About being a werewolf, like some of these other chaps, you mean?" 

Sean nodded guiltily. 

"No, I assure you, I'm a werewolf. I've got all the paperwork and tags to prove it." 

Before he knew it Sean was giggling again, earning vicious looks from the surrounding men. Sean drew his legs closer to himself, his fright creeping slowly back. 

"Good thing I know it, too," Remus said quietly, leaning toward the boy, "Denial is what causes one to infect others. They don't acknowledge their illness, and therefore don't take the proper precautions."

Sean nodded. 

"We won't be killed, Sean, and they won't leave us in here for the full moon. Was that your second question?" 

Sean was caught off guard. He flinched slightly, but despite himself, he was smiling again. "No sir, but that spawned several hundred more questions."

"Well?" 

"Well what? Do you want to hear them all?" 

"No, no, not yet. Start with the original." 

"Alright," Sean took a breath, "You don't look like you could even be forty yet, but your hair is so gray." 

Remus laughed out loud. A nearby man lunged at him, but was so weak from frenzying that Remus kept him at bay with an outstretched foot. 

"Thank you, my boy! I'm over forty, actually. I _have _been going gray since my mid-twenties, however, and most likely so will you. One of the joys of being a werewolf." 

Sean frowned. His third question was answered. Remus smiled and shook his head, still chuckling. "It's only hair, Sean. Dye it if it bothers you that much." 

"It's not that. I just- I just wish I didn't have to be a werewolf. I wish I hadn't been wandering around in the dark that night. I wish-" 

"-unfortunately, Sean, I can't convince you that wishes like that are useless, but I can _tell _you they are," Remus was clearly amused, "Sean, those sort of wished are useless. Especially now." 

"Thanks," Sean spat, "You've made me feel _much _better. How can you be so bloody _jovial_?" 

Remus shrugged, the corners of his mouth still upturned. "At the risk of sounding too pitiful, let's just say, after some of the things I've been through, living in a werewolf camp doesn't seem all that bad." 

"Is that where we're going? A camp?" Sean said, blinking. 

"I'd imagine," said Remus, picking at the corners of his book, "that Mr. Weasley wants us contained _somewhere_, so that Voldemort can't tempt us." 

Sean jumped at the name. He'd never heard it said out loud before. "Tempt us? With what?" 

"Never mind, Sean," Remus replied, suddenly looking very serious, "Unimportant. Nothing at all." 

"No really, Remus, tell me! I want to-" 

He stopped abruptly. All the noise, in fact- all the screaming and moaning and pounding and scratching- had also stopped dead. 

The train was finally slowing down. 

__

::: Sigh ::: This is all going to get rather complicated. Bear with me. And review, por favor! 


	4. Restlessness

DISCLAIMER: Hey, guess what, in case any of you just awoke from a coma, or crawled out from underneath a rock, or underwent surgery to correct your severe retardation: 'Twas not me who done thought up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, or Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, or Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, or Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, or Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix! It all belongs to JK Rowlings, every last golden wonderful fabulous bit of it!!!

****

CHAPTER FOUR

RESTLESSNESS 

"I don't like it," said Mr. Weasley, grimly sipping his tea, "I don't like it at all." 

Mrs. Weasley shook her head slowly, her knitting trembling in her hands. "You can't, Bill. You aren't." 

"I have to." 

The knitting flew across the room, "I _will not _lose another son!" 

"Madness, William," said his father calmly, "You haven't picked up your wand for months. I know we're all going a little nutters, stuck in this tiny living space, but think about-"

"-you're ill!" 

"I'm fine." 

"You're not!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked, "Look at yourself. You could do with gaining double your body weight!" 

Bill chuckled. "I always could, mum. I weigh the same as I always did." 

"Don't you laugh!" Mrs. Weasley roared, standing and pointing a finger, "Don't you laugh about going off to die!" 

Mr. Weasley took his wife by the shoulders and sat her back down. "Son, our family has our share out there fighting. Stay in here. Be safe." 

"Our share?" said Bill, "_Fighting? _You mean Percy, sitting in his office? Or do you mean Charlie, getting piss drunk every night at the colony, perhaps remembering to throw food at the dragons once in awhile? Or are you talking about nutty little Fred-" the pained expressions on his parent's faces caused him to abandoned his thought.

"It can't be this way, mum, dad," he continued after a moment, "Everyone's too afraid to fight. They've got hundreds and thousands of Muggle soldiers marching into his headquarters, every day! They don't understand why their bombs won't go through his barriers, and soon they'll try to use their nuclear weapons, and that will kill us all!" 

"One ill, out-of-practice wizard won't make any difference," said Mr. Weasley.

"_I am not ill_," said Bill indignantly. 

"You could barely get out of bed just yesterday!" Mrs. Weasley wailed. 

"Well I got out of bed today. And I'm going to get out of bed tomorrow, and go to Romania, and Charlie and I are going to fight Voldemort." 

Mr. Weasley shook his head in despair. "You've grown too old for fool ideas like this, son. Far too old. We'll not let you go." 

"We _will not_ let you go," Mrs. Weasley repeated shrilly. 

"You can't stop me. I'm a grown man." 

"We can," said Mr. Weasley very gently, taking another sip of his tea, "You're very weak, son. It's time you realize that." 

"They were only children!" Bill cried, "How could it last forever, when it was unintentional? When it was only an experiment? When I was consenting? _When one of them is dead!_ Damn it, father, magic doesn't work like that. Surely it will wear off!" 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley gazed at their son, subdued and weary. Tears reddened the edge's of his mother eyes, and his father was looking very old. 

"It's a pity the twins had to learn the hard way that some potions just don't mix-"

"No." Bill said, the muscles very tight in his face, "It's something else. It has to be! It was only supposed to make me float, for Merlin's sake!" 

"None of that matters now!" shrieked his mother, "What matters is that we've got sons out there already, two in very dangerous positions, and one a poor lost soul-"

Mrs. Weasley burst into tears as his father tried his best not to. They held each other very close.

"You aren't going, son."

Bill got up and left the room. 

As if to prove him a fool, before he reached his little cave of a room in the basement, his feet began to feel very heavy. 

"Oh no..." he moaned.

The heaviness traveled slowly up his legs and to his waist. He grabbed the railing, breathing hard now. He would make it down the stairs. He would not fall. He would not fall and have his mother come running in, crying I Told You So, as she helped him to bed. He was determined to make it himself. 

As his legs became useless with the heaviness, his fell on his backside and twisted around, dragging himself on his belly, until he reached the floor. He could feel the weight traveling up his chest now so that he could barely breathe, but he drug himself toward his bed- he was almost there- just a few feet-

Useless. It felt like something was pulling him down from underneath, but not just that, like someone was inside his body and pulling his innards toward Hell, from his stomach to his brain. So heavy, like someone had glued him to the floor and placed a great weight on top, to be sure that he would stick forever. 

Nothing to do but brood now. After seven years he'd learned just how to breath so he did not suffocate, but he would have preferred to collapse on his back. At least that way the dust bunnies wouldn't crawl up his nose, and he'd be able to call out if he needed anything. 

He managed to use his fingers to reach up and pull his blanket off the bed, and as he was trying to lift his head, it suddenly felt like he was flying, soaring toward the ceiling. 

But he wasn't. He was just back to normal. Bill got up off the floor and threw himself on the bed. He hated that. It was a relief that he wasn't to be weighted (or ill, as everyone else called it) for hours to the floor, but damn it, how he wished he'd never agreed to be a Guinea pig for the twins. 

It had seemed like a great idea; they'd offered him a cut of the profits. Weasley Wizard's Super Hovering Bubble Gum- Super Strength, Super Bubbles- Fly Without A Broom! 

Or just the opposite. Instead of the expected and rather attractive side effects, he was left with the permanent condition he'd just experienced. It came on at any given moment. And each time, just as he was now, he hoped and prayed that it would never happen again. Someday, surely, it would just stop. 

Whatever happened, he was done being a slave to it. He certainly wasn't getting any younger, and had yet to do anything with his life but make Head Boy, work at a bank, and hide. 

Voldemort had his own territory now. Everyday he killed more and more half-bloods, more and more wizards on his hit list, more and more Muggles, and from reading the _Daily Prophet _(which, ironically, came out only twice a month now),it seemed to Bill that little was being done to prevent it. They were hiding, everywhere. Even Secret Keeper's Secret Keepers were searching for their own Secret Keepers, which was useless, because everyone was too afraid to Keep anyone's Secret anymore. 

But his brother Percy, whom Bill still hoped would prove to be a good leader, was struggling to pull together scant armies, and training them to be Aurors (from books, as most of the Auror's were dead or in hiding). There was a call for adult wizards of any age to help with the crusade against Voldemort. 

Dumbledore, growing older by the day, had finally given in and was offering Auror classes, which included learning the Unforgivable Curses, at Hogwarts. He and a team of wizards were kept busy making the whole school disappear and reappear in different locations at regular intervals, so that Voldemort could not find it, and so perhaps young wizards would be allowed back to school. A great deal of them were being home schooled now. Some families, in desperation, were even posing as Muggles. Unless one enlisted in a Muggle army, chances of survival were greater that way.

The Hogwarts students couldn't even play Quidditch as of late- moving an enormous castle was absurdly difficult enough- moving the grounds along with it was impossible. 

Bill didn't care if he came face to face with Voldemort, only to fall over and be killed, as long as he tried to do something. He couldn't sit and wait for this pathetic curse of the gum to kill him. He had to go. He didn't feel bad leaving his parents, after all, they still had Ron, his wife, and Ginny, and soon they would have grandchildren. Ron seemed to be happy all cooped up, starting a family, and writing letters to wherever Harry and Hermione were hiding. 

But not Bill. He was leaving. He had a plan in his head. He would pretend to be "ill," in the parlor, and when his parents were asleep, he would simply walk out the door and Apparate (if he could still remember how) to Charlie's. 

As soon as the time was right. 


	5. Guilt

DISCLAIMER: Must I endlessly repeat myself? Must I really? Fine. I don't own any of this stuff. JK Rowlings, I humbly thank you. :::bows:::

****

CHAPTER FIVE

GUILT

He was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the window sill. He had a lovely view from his office. All of London was stretched out before him. He loved to lean out sometimes, feel the smog kiss his face, and watch the Muggles walk right through the building without suspecting a thing. Someday he would have to ask how that sort of magic was maintained (_stupid, childish questions!)._

_"GEORGE!" _

Percy sat straight up. Charlie shot up from the cot next to him, Bill on his other side, too weak to sit up. 

(where am i?) 

Display cases and shelves of merchandise all around- the joke shop. 

(again. not again)

Someone- was it Fred? -wailing, crying, panicking from somewhere else-. 

"GEORGE WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG? TELL ME WHAT IS WRONG!" 

Charlie bolted from the room, still in his boxer shorts. Percy started to follow, but looked down on himself and dug around in his suitcase for his robe-

"GEORGE GET UP! THIS ISN'T FUNNY! I CAN'T BREATHE! THIS IS NOT FUNNY GEORGE YOU GET UP RIGHT NOW!" 

What the hell was he doing, searching for his robe when Fred's screaming was splitting his ears? Good God what was wrong? He thought he heard choking... was someone choking? Fred was choking- how could he choke like that, and still be screaming?

(Again and again and again and again and again..).

"Fred, give him to me!" He heard Charlie say, his normally gruff voice high and panic-stricken.

"No! This isn't funny George YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME-"

"FRED, LET ME SEE HIM!" 

"NO! Leave off... he'll be fine. He's only playing a horrible joke. He'll be fine soon enough..." 

Percy found his robe and wrapped it around his body, hugging himself. His feet did not move. Why would his feet not move? (always such a coward) 

"What's going on?" Bill asked weakly, turning his head to Percy. "Go see what's wrong." 

"HE'S ONLY PLAYING A JOKE!" 

"HE'S GOT SOMETHING IN HIS THROAT! FRED LET GO, LET ME SEE!" 

Something in his throat... Percy was stuck where he was. He would not move. 

(why wouldn't you move?)

As sticky and foul tasting as tar...

(what have i done?)

(Again and again and again and again and again and again...)

"NOOOOOO!" someone, an unfamiliar voice had shrieked. 

(was that me? did i scream?) 

Bill was dragging himself up- he was standing- he was dragging Percy into the stockroom-

(complimentary sample of screaming gumballs: ruined) 

His mother and father, pale with shock, restraining Fred on one side of the big cauldron. He was fighting madly to get to his twin. Charlie had George over his knee- his hand was deep in George's mouth- he was pulling mounds and mounds of sticky black goo out of George's throat-

(weasley wizard wheezes grand opening: cancelled) 

George was blue. His eyes were open and still alive, still seeing. They were full of fear. 

(no matter what you'll never forget that look, that fear, again and again and again and again and again...)

"HE'S FINE! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" 

More and more of the black stuff. It seemed like it was never ending (like your guilt). More and more and more and more, and George was still not breathing. Charlie flipped him over and beat him on the back.

"I NEED SMALLER HANDS!" Charlie cried. He was shaking, crying, panicking- covered in the black goo. "Percy! Percy, come here!" 

Percy's face was frozen in shock (cowardice). He shook his head no.

Fred howled- his mother and father still had him tight- 

"PERCY I NEED YOUR HELP! COME HERE NOW!" 

Percy had been too frightened (you're so weak)- frightened of the blue body of George, now convulsing, clawing at his throat, clawing at Charlie- 

Percy hadn't realized that Bill had been leaning on him, but felt the absence of his weight as he went forward to help Charlie and George. Percy felt hope now. Bill was long and thin, his fingers were long and thin- surely he could reach down George's throat and dig out what was obstructing it. 

(no hope)

Percy's fingers were also very long and very thin- (why didn't i?) why wasn't he helping? Charlie and Bill were now digging furiously together. There was a pile of goo next to them now, as big as ten or twelve dizzy garden gnomes... 

(why didn't I help?) 

Why didn't Charlie and Bill use their wands? Why didn't they use their goddamn wands? This wasn't supposed to happen! It was only suppose to stick to their jaws! This wasn't suppose to happen- why didn't he tell them? He only needs a certain potion George only needs a certain potion surely there must be a potion it'll break the goo right up and he will breathe again- he'll tell. He'll tell and I'll rot in Azkaban (you deserve it, and someday you will). He'll tell and my family will hate me. Everyone will hate me...it was only supposed to taste bad it was only supposed to be sticky and taste bad saying something! Say something! Do something!

He said nothing. 

He did nothing.

What he did had been done.

Again and again and again and again and again...

George was long dead before Charlie and Bill gave up, covered head to toe in the black goo. It was everywhere. All over the room, still bubbling thickly out of George's throat. 

In his parents shock, Fred was released to run to his twin. 

"George! You've scared us all shitless, you can get up, now. GET UP, GEORGIE, PLEASE WAKE UP!" 

Over Fred's anguish, his begging, his pleading- Percy confessed, again and again and again and again... 

He jerked awake.

The wait was killing him (_you deserve it)_. He reached around to his desk and grabbed a quill and paper. His hands were shaking as he doodled: mostly arrows, pointing round and round in circles, and bubbled question marks. It was all he ever drew. The only explanation he could offer (_as if anyone would care to ask) _was that he was not the artistic type. 

After a few minutes he threw the paper and quill aside and swiveled around to face his desk, drumming his fingers, tugging at his already receding hairline (_I can't stand it). _

From a tiny, intricately decorated glass box he pinched a small amount of powder and threw it on the candle that doubled as a paper weight. "Margaret!" 

The plain face of his secretary appeared in the flames, which had doubled in size. "Yes, sir?" 

"Is there a Mr. Tromedlov out there?" 

"I don't know sir. You've got several people waiting for you. What does he look like? A Russian fellow, I would assume, by the sound of his last name?" 

"Er- yes, he's Russian, but you couldn't tell to look at him- never mind, Margaret, thank you." 

"Yes, but sir, a Mr. Redland would like to see you- so would a Mr. Stromberg- they say it's very import-"

Percy waved the flame away and pushed his glasses up over his forehead. He rubbed his eyes, then buried his head in his arms, groaning. As a frustrated afterthought, he swiped the candle and a pile of papersoff his desk. 

"Of course it's very important. It's _always _very-"

"-Hello, Minister Weasley," said a voice. 

Percy jumped and turned to look at the black cloaked figure, fear boiling inside him. He would never get used to him (_no room for thoughts like this!). _"Hello, Mas- Mr. Tromedlov." 

The man smiled, sitting opposite him, on the other side of the desk. "How's work, my boy?" 

"Hectic." 

"It's been done. It's all done." 

"Good. Thank you, sir." 

"I understand you wish to speak to me?" 

"Yes, but it can certainly wait-" Percy grew very cold. He saw the look in his Master's face. He'd stolen the body of a fairly good looking man, dark features and nice teeth- but the eyes were so scary sometimes (_i am a failure- it's a wonder my Master does anything for me). _Why was he changing his mind? Why had he humbly asked his Master to see him, just to tell him it could wait? The irritation in his Master's scary eyes was certainly justified. "-I'm sorry (_no room for apologies, you fool!), _I mean, I'm-"

Mr. Tromedlov laughed. "Ah, Percy, stop blubbering. What is it that you wish to ask me?" 

Percy nodded _(you should feel better now). _"Sir..."

"Hurry up, Minister. I've got many things that must be done." 

"With the full moon, sir?" 

The eyes were dangerously annoyed. "_What is it that you want_, Minister Weasley?" 

"Can you _(admitting weakness- damn it, can you do nothing right?) _take away my nightmares?" 

His Master frowned. 

"You have nightmares? Like a little boy, you have nightmares?" 

Percy hung his head. "I see it, over and over again. I have nightmares even when I am awake. I know what you've done has fixed-"

"DO YOU WET YOURSELF?" his Master roared angrily, "DO YOU WET THE BED WHEN YOU HAVE NIGHTMARES, LIKE A WEAK LITTLE BOY? Why do you tell me this, _little boy_, why?"

"Because I want them to end!" _(don't you cry, don't you fucking cry. he'll kill you if you cry oh but i want to die i want to die i want to die i deserve to die...)_

"Mr. Weasley!" cried Margaret from outside the door, "Are you alright in there?" 

"Yes- yes, go away, please, I'm fine," Percy called to her, disgusted by the thinness of his own voice. 

"Mr. Stromberg insists on coming in, sir. He says that the price of Talon of Dragon has gone up nearly forty percent in the last-" 

"SEND HIM AWAY!" Percy ordered, "I'm terribly busy!" 

With Margaret silenced, he turned back to his Master, who had stood and was glaring down at him. "You are pathetic, Percy." 

"I know that, Master."

"I have done a lot for you. Too much. You know that, don't you?" 

_(what about what i have done for you?) _"Yes, Master. Far too much, Master."

"I will not take away your nightmares, understand?" 

"I understand, Master." 

"You'll learn to be a man, and get rid of them yourself. There is no room for guilt, is there, Percy?" 

"There is no room for guilt, Master." 

"A man with a conscience cannot gain power." 

"A man with a conscience cannot gain power, Master." 

_(who ever said i wanted power?)_

"Especially a guilty conscience. Keep telling yourself that, and perhaps after a few hundred times you'll start to believe it." Voldemort stood and laughed down at Percy, shaking his head, and was gone.

_(i never wanted this)_

"It's alright," Percy told himself aloud, "It's alright now. He said it's been done. It's fixed. I have nothing to feel guilty about anymore. Nothing. Nothing to feel guilty about, nothing at all..." 

_"GEORGE!" _

Percy sat straight up. Charlie shot up from the cot next to him, Bill on his other side, too weak to sit up. 

(where am i?) 

Display cases and shelves of merchandise all around- the joke shop. 

(again. not again)

Someone- was it Fred? -wailing, crying, panicking from somewhere else-. 

Well, it says right in the summary: Rated R for general creepiness. **REVIEW**, please. Gracias!_ :)_


	6. Swear Not By the Moon

DISCLAIMER: Don't own shit. Also, the title of this chapter is a line from Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare, and who ever owns that, please don't sue me either. 

****

CHAPTER SIX

SWEAR NOT BY THE MOON

It was nearly dusk. Nearly time.

Yesterday Remus had taken Sean and led him to the back of the boxcar, or they might have been killed in the mad rush that ensued as the big sliding doors began to creak open. Right when the moonlight about to shine in through the crack, the doors had stopped. There had been a collective groan. 

"Let us out!" someone had screamed. 

"YOU WILL REMAIN CALM." A professional, almost machine-like voice had boomed. "WHEN THE DOORS OPEN, ANY ESCAPE WILL BE PUNISHED WITH DEATH. YOU WILL STEP OUT IN AN ORDERLY FASHION AND ENTER THROUGH THE GATES. DO NOT TOUCH THEM, AS THEY ARE SILVER PLATED." 

"Ingenious," Remus muttered, playfully elbowing Sean in his side. He could tell that the boy, understandably, couldn't find any humor in the situation at all. Remus thought perhaps he should try not to be so cheerful, but really had nothing to be particularly upset about. He hadn't anything better to do, besides sit at home and bicker with Sirius like they were an old married couple- so he had cheerfully bade his friend goodbye and allowed himself to be escorted to the train, rather glad for a vacation. 

At least now he'd have free meals for a while. He had to admit, however, that the whole "punished with death" thing was, though a little melodramatic, rather unsettling. 

The door were pried open. Several werewolves were about to charge through to freedom, but wizards in masks stood outside each boxcar, holding their wands in one hand, pointed silver rods in the other. Everyone fell back. 

__

Why on earth are they wearing masks? Remus had wondered as he and the boy stepped out of the car. He had been feeling more uneasy by the second. He'd thought it understandable, though little harsh and prejudiced, that Percy Weasley had ordered the isolation of werewolves, but wearing masks? Who were they? He shook it off, telling himself that it the Ministry wizards were just ashamed of the task they'd been assigned. It was plausible. He knew that many officials were not happy with Weasley's decisions, but wished to keep their jobs, and thus followed orders. 

The gates were indeed made of silver. Remus had itched just walking passed them. Luckily the crowd was not big enough for anyone to be pushed into them, or it could have been a mess. The train had been only four cars long, containing, collectively, about two hundred werewolves. 

They were marched into a giant, empty warehouse, fed, and left to their own devices: sleeping, complaining, or trying to escape. Everyone seemed disgusted by the presence of everyone else, and dispersed evenly throughout the giant room. Remus and Sean had stayed close to each other. Remus felt an odd sense of responsibility for the boy. He seemed to be the youngest werewolf of the whole lot, and Remus, surprisingly, the oldest. 

In the morning they'd been marched out to giant field with an upward slope, and it was here they were now. The silver-plated fences were all around. There was nothing else but sun-yellowed grass, for what seemed like miles and miles.

Sean and Remus were sitting nervously at the top of the hill, the only werewolves who had braved to climb anywhere near it. The others treated this vastness just like the expanse of warehouse, that is to say, by putting as much space around them as they could. It seemed everyone had realized that screaming and carrying on would be useless, and so they laid there, silent and frightened. 

For the boy's sake, and admittedly for his own, Remus had kept his good humor throughout, but was now trying to hide his panic. What on earth was the meaning of this? Were they to be left in the field to tear each other apart? There had been no talk of Wolfsbane from the officials. 

Beside Remus were the unpleasant memories of his childhood transformations- Sean was writhing and sweating, feeling the throb of the pulling moon.

"Remus," he moaned pitifully, "Remus, it hurts! Don't you feel it?" 

Yes, yes he did, in the very core of his bones.

"A bit," Remus admitted, "though I think by now I'd feel rather strange without it." 

"We're going to kill each other," Sean whimpered, "aren't we?" 

"Of course not!" 

"Oh _jesus, _I hate it!" The boy arched his back and clawed at the ground, "I hate this! It hurts so bad-"

"Waiting is the worst, isn't it, Sean? Why don't you tell me about school?" said Remus, trying to put the boy's mind on something else. 

"School!" Sean spat, "Who cares? I'll never go back! I'll be dead!" 

"No, we won't, Sean. They aren't going to kill us." 

"I know _they _aren't! We'll all change, and murder each other. Make my death quick, please, Remus! Just snap my neck or something-"  
"-stop it, now, Sean. Come on... we'll figure out something. Maybe a spot to hide? Come on."

Sean scoffed, burying his face in the crooked of his elbow. "There's nowhere to hide. Just leave me here. I'm sick of your optimism."

Remus took the boy by the arm and hauled him up, ignoring his yelp of pain. Moments later he shook off the teeth he felt sinking into the shoulder of his cloak. 

The sun disappeared behind the distant mountains on the horizon. Howls of panic erupted all over the field. 

Remus drugged the boy, fighting him viciously, off the hill, to a place where the warehouse overlapped the gate. The others were hidden from view. Remus trusted himself, after years of regular Wolfsbane, to not tear the boy to shreds. Perhaps he could keep him at bay, away from the others, and maybe the could survive the carnage. 

Maybe.

The sky was darkening. 

He slammed the struggling Sean to the ground and put his knee in the boy's back, holding him tightly at the wrists. The boy growled and screamed. 

"We're going to be fine, Sean," Remus called over the noise. Everywhere around them the werewolves were vocalizing their pure fear of the moon, screaming that they didn't want to die- 

The sky blackened, and suddenly the moon was hanging in the sky. 

Remus bared his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, felt the ache overcoming him- the moon, huge and blinding- he cringed-

Nothing. 

The pain drained away.

For a moment there was a bewildered silence. All over men and women were examining their body parts, gazing at the moon, then back down at themselves. 

Remus let go of Sean and looked at his own hands, waiting for them to stretch, waiting for the hair to sprout. He felt his torso, waiting for that splitting, excruciating, tearing pain-

But nothing. 

Sean pounced at him, knocking him over and clawing at his face-

"Sean! Sean look at yourself"

He did, and after a moment let out a whoop of joy, hugging Remus around the neck. 

Sean was the first to call out across the yard, "We've been cured!" 

There was a tremendous sigh of relief, then and explosion of celebration. Total strangers embraced and skipped arm in arm, dancing in the moonlight. 

_What is happening? _Remus thought. He forgot all about the boy and ran at top speed, back to the highest point of the slope. His ears were deaf to the celebrating below him; his eyes were blind to the waving of arms-

It was only he, a peaceful silence, and the enormous, silver moon. 

It was so beautiful- so bright- so... full. It was strange to look at while not frozen in agony. This perfect orb had caused him endless, eternal amounts of pain- the physical aspects by far the least of it. He could not remember the last time he'd gazed upon something so complete and round, and _perfect_. How could something so gorgeous be such a wretched enemy? 

For the first time in many, many years, Remus' eyes filled with tears. 

Soon he could hear himself sobbing, but could not take his eyes the beautiful sight. 

"Remus!" The boy was jogging up the hill toward him, "Remus, why are you so upset? We're cured!" 

The boy could never understand, thought Remus, feeling weak. Sean had grown up with Wolfsbane. He'd probably never been deprived of it. He was probably used to being tucked into bed when the moon was full, getting his temperature taken, and having his sore muscles massaged until the time came. Being a werewolf was viewed as an illness nowadays, not the disgusting and shameful curse it once was. Sean would never know the physical and psychological pain of tearing himself apart, waking up alone, naked and bloody in a freezing and filthy room. He would never know the fear of accidentally hurting someone, the horror of knowing that he was a dangerous, feared, and hated monster...

Remus' hid his face in his hands, staring at the moon through trembling fingers. 

"Remus! Be happy! You're not a werewolf anymore!" 

Remus flinched. What an absurd statement. Of course he was a werewolf. Remus J. Lupin was a werewolf. He always had been. Long ago there was a little boy, only a little boy, a five year old boy who was called cute things like "Honey-Pot" and "Ree-Mee-Dee" by his parents, but that little boy not longer existed. Just a werewolf named Remus. 

And yet here he sat under the moon, its rays sparkling off his tears, illuminating his pale skin. 

Remus let out a howl of joy and let himself fall backward, arms outstretched as if to embrace the sky. 

Sean showed the heavens his middle finger. He and Remus laughed defiantly at the moon. The others continued to bathe like children in the moonlight, laughing and singing. He felt the boy beating him encouragingly on the back. 

Suddenly the warehouse gates were creaking open. A man in a white cloak stepped out, all of the masked Ministry wizards filing behind him in two lines. He looked around at all of them. Remus could make out a smile on his face.

The man held his wand to his throat and all was silent. There werewolves beamed at him as if he were a god. 

"Greetings, my friends!" His voice boomed, "I am Mr. Thomas Tromedlov. I trust you are all enjoying our little surprise." 

The crowd roared, including Sean, who punctuated it with a back flip. 

All but Remus. He about to suggest that they go down and join in the merriment when logic came thundering back at him. He sat up, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously. 

It wasn't right.

The Ministry wizards were still wearing masks. None of the werewolves had been brought here of their own free will. They had been dragged. The Ministry had directly violated their rights in forcing them to come here. 

"The cure, my friends," the magnified voice continued, "was put in your food last night, compliments of your Minister of Magic, Mr. Percy Weasley." 

There was a lesser cheer, but a loud one all the same. 

"Now that we know it works, I would like to congratulate each of you on your new lives!"

The cheer was earsplitting. 

"It is obvious to me that the pesky business of being a Lycanthrope is all over for you, my friends, but if you would all step inside for a little celebration feast, we will discuss certain community services that you may perform in return for us sharing our marvelous breakthrough with you! It is not required, of course. The Apparation wards have been lifted and you are free to go, but it is definitely recommended that you stay, and would be a pleasure if you did!" 

There was a mad rush to the warehouse gates. The officials stood back, but the Mr. Tromedlov in the white cloak stayed and shook each werewolf's hand as they hurried in. 

Remus held tight to the back of Sean's sweater. 

"Let me go!" he hissed, eyes burning. 

"No. Listen to me. Something is wrong about this-"

"LET ME GO!" 

"No. I'm taking you home." 

"Maybe you've gotten used to it, _old man_," Sean spat, tugging madly to get away, "But I don't want to be a werewolf!" 

"Listen to me," said Remus frantically, "This is dark magic. Stop and think about-"

"I DON'T CARE!" He turned and was about to take Remus' throat, but the older man grasped him by the shoulders and Apparated.

He had no clue to where they should go. They appeared from nowhere in the middle of a dirty, bar-lined street. The moon was not visible because of the tall buildings, but it shone tauntingly in Remus' mind, beckoning him, _daring _him to betray his gut feeling. 

Sean was red and spitting with anger. "You _stupid_- you _fucking_- you _dirty_-"

"-Sean-"

"GET AWAY FROM ME! I'm _sorry _you had such a _difficult _life!" his voice took on a horrible, high-pitch mocking tone, "I'm _sorry _you didn't have enough friends-"

"I had plenty- Sean, listen to me-"

"I'm sorry you went all gray and your parents probably didn't love you and maybe you even got sent to a kennel when you were sick and beat up all the time by total strangers, I learned all about that rubbish in school!" Sean was enraged, blindly flailing his arms at Remus and several bewildered Muggles. Remus kept backing away. They were both oblivious to the crowd forming around them. 

"My parents were great-" Remus muttered, avoiding the boy's fists, "Sean, you need to calm down!" 

"DON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT I NEED TO DO! I need to go back to that place and I need to pay for my cure and I need to get well and attempt a normal life! I'm sorry you've grown so paranoid and bitter in your old age, it's perfectly understandable, but you had _NO RIGHT _to _DRAG ME _away from a _CURE_-"

"Do you want to lead a normal life? You will, supposedly. You're already 'cured.' Being a Death Eater is no way to lead a normal life." 

Sean stopped flailing, regarding Remus as if he were insane. "What is Merlin's Beard are you talking about?" 

Several Muggles in the crowd turned to whisper "Death-_what_?" and "_Who's _beard?" to each other. 

"If this is such a great and marvelous cure, Sean, then why did they force us to go?" 

Sean blinked, his eyes still full of anger. "Who knows? All I know is that there's a bloody full moon and I've not turned into a wolf!" 

Several Muggle eyebrows raised. 

"Quite right. That much is true. But it doesn't make sense, Sean. I don't know who this Mr. Trom-ed-whatever is, but his motives can't be honorable..." Remus trailed off. His face went green, his eyes full of horror. "-no... that means Percy...."

Sean was reluctantly reconsidering. A teenaged Muggle with shaggy hair raised his eyes toward the sky, his lips moving. 

"Don't trust him, Sean. He's mad!" The Muggle offered humbly.

"What?" Sean demanded irritably. "Do you mind?" 

"They're both mad," someone else muttered.

"Come on, " said Remus, taking Sean's arm and pushing the crowd aside. "I'll take you home, and then I've got to warn his family..."

"What _are _you on about?" 

"Nothing- none of your concern. You need to get home at once. Where do you live?" 

The shaggy- headed Muggle shook his head, watching the two males in pajama dresses hurry down the street. 

"Load of nutters in this town," he told a woman next to him. 

__

A lot of people have been asking me who's married to who, to which I respond: It's up to you. I'm not a shipper. It wouldn't faze me if no one paired up with anyone by the end of the seventh book. I'm not even going to go there. I know people are sensitive about their pairings. 

Sorry Steph :) Of course, there is that whole theory of Charlie or Bill (I forget which) hooking up with Fleur- christ, I hope not. I hate her, almost as much as I hate Professor Trelawney. Actually, I hate Fleur more. There you have it, the only pairing I care about. 

TRELAWNEY AND FLEUR: A TRAGEDY UNFORESEEN

By Rose Rovente 

Rated R for language

Disclaimer: See above, oh yeah, and sorry I'm about to offend all you Fleur lovers out there....

Once upon a time Fleur and Trelawney were sitting by the lakeside talking about how the part-veela was going to marry Charlie/Bill. It was disgusting. Fortunately, shortly before they were about to discuss at length how Fleur and Bill/Charlie were going to consummate their relationship(again), Snape pushed them both into the lake and they drowned slowly. 

Don't worry, Charlie/Bill didn't really like her anyway. He/He thought she was kind of dumb and rather dull company, but she was easy, so... you know... whatever. 

Snape got a fierce pat on the back. 

To this day people still sit at the Three Broomsticks and, while they are getting all shitty-faced drunk, nudge each other and whispered conspiratorially, "I bet old Trelawney didn't see that one coming." 

The End. 

Sorry... I don't know where that came from... anyway, review chapter 6, oh please! 


	7. Uneven

DISCLAIMER: I sure don't intend to make money offen' these here characters that done belong to JK Rowlings and Publishing companies and stuff, and no copyright infringement was intended cause I'm just having fun, you know? 

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

UNEVEN

When they reached a spacious gap in the trees, Sean let out a whoop and turned cartwheels toward the quaint little cottage. Remus paused uncomfortably, wondering if it would be best to leave the boy now, slip quietly into the brush and find the Weasleys. Sean would have none of that; he stopped at the front door and turned back to Remus. 

"Come on, Remus," he beckoned, "you've got to meet everyone. Maybe my Aunt Sue is visiting. You'd fancy her, I think!" 

Remus shyly approached, noticing that the cottage was not so little, on the contrary, it was quiet big. 

Sean charged through the door, hollering, "Mum! Dad! I'm home!" 

The front room was deserted and empty. No reply came. Sean looked about, his face etched with worry. 

"Mum?" he said tentatively, "Dad?" 

For the next few minutes Remus stood helplessly in the parlor, listening to panicked footsteps and doors slamming open and shut. 

"Mum! Dad! Caroline? Fred? Tyler? John! JOHN? WHERE- Remus, they're gone!" Sean was suddenly next to him, panting, tears streaming down his face. He threw himself on the sofa and raked his hair several times. "What am I going to do?" 

"Couldn't they have stepped out for a moment?" asked Remus hopefully. 

Sean shook his head, his face crumpling. "Tyler is- _was_- an Auror- recovering from real bad burns- they wouldn't have moved him... unless they are all-" 

"No," Remus said firmly, "I'm sure that's not it at all. They probably went into hiding, Sean. They were probably scared that you got taken away." 

"What did they expect me to do?" 

"They probably didn't know you'd be back so soon, " _Or sure you'd be back at all, _Remus thought, but said, "Let's not worry, Sean, I'm sure they're fine-"

"Just like you were _sure _we weren't going to die!"

Remus couldn't help but smile. "Are we dead, Sean?" 

Sean sniffled. "Well, it was real nice to meet you. I'll just wait here for my family to-"

"Oh no, you don't," said Remus, preparing to drag the boy up, "I can't leave you here. It's not safe." 

"Oh yes? And where do you plan on taking me?" 

This Remus had not had time to think about. Well, he'd had plenty of time to think on their hike through the woods, but managed to avoid it. Now Sean was staring skeptically at him, his arms crossed over his chest, which certainly didn't make it easier. 

Percy Weasley, and possibly the entire Ministry, was being corrupted by Voldemort, Remus was sure of it. The evidence was there.. It wasn't a new trick; Voldemort had tried it many years ago, before he fell, but only with empty promises for a cure. And he'd had to do it personally, one by one, and always after the full moon, when the werewolf in question was ill and sore. This time, in the form of Mr. Weasley, he'd gotten the power to bring the werewolves to him. 

Remus thought hard, and was able to produce a blurred image of a skinny, red-headed boy with glasses who always seemed to have his chest stuck out. A good, respectful boy, at least to Remus when he had been Professor Lupin. Death Eater material? Didn't seem the type, really. How could he be-? 

Remus thought of a chubby, watery-eyed person he used to know, and his question was answered. 

Sean was still staring at him. Remus turned away. He noticed for the first time a family portrait hanging over the mantel. Seven fair haired, gray-eyed people blinked and waved at him. 

He didn't know where to turn, who to share this information with, except Percy's family. He knew the mother and father and Harry's friend Ron and the girl were all hiding- but there was another- two others, older boys. He knew from whispering and rumors that one of the identical twins had died tragically in some sort of botched experiment, and the other was raving mad. There was the other thin one who was very sickly- Remus had met him somewhere over the years... or maybe not. The wizarding community was so small when it came to gossip he couldn't be sure- so that left one more, Remus thought, wracking his brain. Chester- no, Charles- Charlie. He remember vaguely Ron telling his class about how Charlie worked with dragons. Remus mentally patted himself on the back for retaining so much of his memory. 

Sean had given up on him for a response, and was weeping into the couch, his shoulders shaking. 

"Do you like dragons?" Remus asked. 

"I want my family back!" Sean sobbed dramatically, beating the arm of the sofa. 

"You'll have them back, don't worry. But for now, we're going to Romania." 

"Romania? I'm not going there. I refused to go anywhere! I _just want _my family back!" 

Remus sighed. "Tantrums are very unbecoming of a young man your age, Sean. I understand that you're scared, but I think you need to try to be brave." 

After a long moment Sean sat up grudgingly. "Why are we going there?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

"I don't like dragons."

"Then you don't have to see any," Remus paused and smiled, "Or, if you'd rather, I could drop you off at my place. My friend Sirius Black would be happy to keep you company." 

"_Sirius Black?_ "

"Only joking. Let's away, quickly now." 

And so they raided the fridge, took showers, and fell into exhausted sleep. 

******

"Why are you so fidgety?" said Charlie, holding his brother's head still, "Don't you want me to do this?" 

"Yes... yes, just do it quickly," said Fred, squeezing his eyes shut. "Before I change my mind."

"I would have thought you'd be eager to get rid of them," he said, poising the scissors, "_Dreadful _things." 

Fred sniggered. "Funny, Charlie. Was that on purpose?" 

"No pun intended," Charlie replied, chopping off the first lump of hair. 

"I've just gotten so used to them," moaned Fred, wincing as an avalanche of dreadlocks fell to the floor. 

"Ugh, Fred, I think you've got bugs!" 

"I have not!" 

"You do! Hold on, I'll take care of them-" Charlie handed Fred the scissors and whipped out his wand. "Here we go, _Avada-"_

"Charlie!" Fred shrieked, jumping up.

"Come on now," he laughed. Fred looked rather hilarious, all frightened with only half a head of dreadlocks. "Sit down, I'll only take a moment." 

Fred backed away. "You can't curse all the bugs dead without killing _me, _too-"

"We all have to make sacrifices... come on, let your bugs take it like men." 

Fred caught on and his face brightened. "Alright, then. But you'll have to get past me, first!"

"_Draw your sword_." Charlie replied with mock intensity.

The result was a very boyish, giggly, action packed sword fight all over the bathroom, in which Charlie's already aging wand received several new dents from the scissors, and Fred was nearly seared when the wand fussed in protest, spitting out red sparks. While he was distracted with this, Charlie seized his brother's weapon, and in one graceful movement Fred was back in his chair, they were both out of breath, and hair was once again falling to the floor. 

Charlie hummed quietly. Now that the clouds outside had cleared, as did his head, and his flatmates had gone to a party at the other end of the building, he was feeling a little better. He really had missed Fred a lot. He missed his whole family. It had been a month since he'd talked to anyone in hiding, nearly two years since Fred had last wandered by, and long, long time since he'd seen Percy. 

He was missing George, too, now that that mental block had come crashing down. He'd always felt closer to George, but had all but forgotten about him, after they'd thrown the last bit of dirt over his grave. George had often come to Charlie with girl problems, advice, or just to talk, where as Fred never did. Knowing Fred, Charlie supposed he figured that George's advice was all he needed.

George had always been the more sensible one, if there was such a thing in Weasley twin. In the few times the twins had reckoned they were stepping over the line with a joke, it was definitely George who brought it to Fred's attention. In the few times when they had fought and didn't just forget about it minutes later, George was the one who would bend and let Fred win. In their speech, when they were excited or upset, if they weren't talking at the same time, Fred always began the thought and George always finished it. Charlie missed that. It seemed that afterward Fred had trouble truly communicating, without George to complete his sentences. 

But sometimes Fred would smile how George used to smile, or laugh how George used to laugh- little differences Charlie hadn't noticed when they were both alive- and it would sadden him.

It was like they'd both died, and suddenly there was this new person in the family they had to get used to.

The family had barely had time to grieve. It had been only days, he thought -though he couldn't be sure, everything had been such a haze- after George's death, when a messenger had come. One of Dumbledore's spies had said the Weasleys were on Voldemort's hit list, and who knows why? By then it seemed like a random lottery. Charlie had hid there with his family for many months, but never knew where the hiding place was. When Charlie informed Dumbledore that his cabin fever was growing unbearable, that he wanted to go back to the dragons and take his chances, he'd been told a very precise time to Apparate out. Here he'd appeared, and here he had been since. 

Fred's hair was nearly done now, an uneven mess of short red fuzz. Charlie knew, as he prepared to shave Fred's head, that he'd better brace himself- it would be strange to see Fred again how he remembered him, only a little older. It had been rather creepy to look at him after George had died. He looked, well, _wrong, _without George next to him. Uneven. 

At first, of course, Fred hadn't smiled and laughed at all. He hadn't cried or screamed either, just kept pleading for George to wake up, please wake up, for weeks and weeks, and eventually was just completely incoherent and didn't speak at all. The family feared that he would die too, but for months his mother force fed him and washed him, Charlie and Ron sat up with him at night to be sure he didn't do anything regrettable... 

And one day he came down for breakfast, smiling- and Charlie had nearly fainted with surprise- he'd thought for a split second it was George, but it was Fred, suddenly bright-eyed and almost normal looking.

Fred had looked around at all of them, and with his mouth full of pancakes, asked, "Where's George? Did he go to Lee's without me?" 

His mother and sister had burst into tears.

Percy had actually passed out- fell right off his chair and took the table cloth and most of the dishes with him. Mr. Weasley dove to the floor after him. 

Fred paid no mind to Percy, or his mother or sister, or the fact that his breakfast was on the ground, but was for some reason looking to Charlie for an explanation. 

"Fred..." he had choked, fighting back tears.

"Your brother is dead, son. You know that." Mr. Weasley had interjected weakly, helping his other son off the floor. 

"Dead?" Fred had said innocently, "What do you mean?" 

It was then that Charlie hid his face in his hands. He could hear Percy to his right, wondering what had just happened, asking for his glasses, even though they were still on his face. 

His father tried to tell him, but Fred just looked at all of them with fixed eyes, a confused smile on his face. A month or so later he announced he was leaving. He had to find his twin brother.

Charlie was sure it would have been different for Fred if George had just gotten ill and passed away. He would have been able to cope with it better. But it had been so sudden. Fred had been right there, watching helplessly... 

Charlie hoped that Percy knew no one thought he did it on purpose. He hoped Percy knew that no one hated him for what he'd done... but was that really the truth? It had been unintentional, they were at least was sure of that. 

Charlie never thought he would miss Percy's constant clucking and bitching- but in the days after George's death, he'd gone gray in the face, was constantly watery-eyed, and always shaking his head slowly back and forth, as if living the memory over and over again. His body was constantly trembling. He's lost an astounding amount of weight and after meals Charlie would hear him in the bathroom, vomiting quietly. Sometimes he would scream in his sleep, but by day he never spoke above a choked whisper. 

But Charlie could never bring himself to say anything to Percy. No one could. Deep in his heart, though he hated himself for it, he _did _resent Percy for George's death- he _did _blame him... but it only made him thankful that he had not been the constant butt of the twins' jokes, or who knows? he might have done the same thing- and it might have gone terribly wrong. 

Percy was a ghost the day he told them all he was leaving. Fred had already been gone for awhile, and Charlie had recently announced he was leaving in the fall. His mother and father had only nodded to Percy and said he must do what he felt best, which must have hurt him beyond words. His parents had thrown the fits of all fits at the news of Charlie's and Fred's partings.

When Charlie thought of him, he felt only great sadness- could only bow his head and think of what a terrible shame it all was, and how he wished there was some way to take it all back. He wanted Percy to be a pompous ninny again. He wanted Voldemort dead, and his mother and father to be at the Burrow. He wanted Ron's children to attend Hogwarts and play Quidditch. He wanted Fred and George to be a pair again, and he wanted desperately to stop depending on drunken stupors to forget all these things. 

"All done," said Charlie, brushing the hair off Fred's neck. 

"Thanks." Fred felt his head. "I feel loads lighter, without all that dirt and hair." 

"You'll be alright in my robe while I clean up, right?" 

"Sure. I'm glad I stopped in," said Fred happily, "If George saw me like that I'm sure he would run the other way. I _do _want him to recognize me." 

"Yeah," Charlie muttered, finding he's lost interest in sweeping. 

"Who knows, maybe he decided to grow dreadlocks, too."

Charlie let the broom fall to the floor with a clatter. "Fred." 

"Hmm?" 

"If you don't believe George has died, then why do you hate Percy?" 

For the first time Fred turned to look at him. He had that look on his face again, like he was a small child and Charlie was a big, mean, intimidating monster. 

It was immediately an unfair question, considering Fred's mental state, that Charlie wished he hadn't asked. 

Fred replied in a crazy, sing-song voice, "Percy scared him away. George must've been afraid, after Percy tried to murder him, so he ran away." 

"Listen to yourself, Fred," Charlie whispered, "You can't believe what you're saying." 

"He was so afraid that he didn't even tell me he was leaving, but I forgive him." 

"George wouldn't want you to be like this. You're wasting your life, Freds. He wouldn't want you to be like this. " 

"Don't tell me what _my twin _would want for me! George wouldn't want me to stop looking for him!" Fred's eyes were growing frantic. 

"Fine, alright, fine. I'm sorry. But Percy- he didn't mean- he just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine-" 

"It wasn't funny." 

"No," said Charlie, shaking his head, "it sure wasn't. Nor were most of the pranks you pulled on him." 

"Is that suppose to make it okay?" 

"Is it suppose to make what okay?" 

"THE FACT THAT GEORGE IS DEAD! There, I said it! Does that make you happy?" Fred wailed. "We never went _that _far- we _never _came _close _to hurting _Percy_-"

"I think George would want you to forgive Percy." Charlie said gently.

"It can't be true, Charlie," Fred was kneading up and down his brother's arms, as if he were desperate to hold on to something, "He can't be dead. I don't know why he'd avoid me for seven long years, but he _couldn't _have died. It's our twenty-five birthday, Charlie. You know what we're suppose to do today? We were going to go see that silly Muggle magician, David something-or-another, and we were going to mess with his show. Take it over. We picked now because we figured Percy would be Minister by now and we wouldn't get thrown in jail for it- that's stupid, as if Perce would really do anything to keep us out of prison- I just want to see George. I want to talk to him so bad, I have so many things to tell him. I wanna tell him about this Muggle girl I met in Amsterdam... you wouldn't believe it, Charlie. Muggle girls give the best knob shinings- it's just unbelievable, it's like magic..." 

Fred laughed pitifully, his eyes wild and unfocused, and let go of Charlie. 

He buried his face in his knees and sobbed. 

Charlie suddenly wished he had a strong drink. He left Fred to cry, and went through his bedroom and into the kitchen, tripping over the broom on his way out. His head was in the icebox when the door opened and Ian and Scott fell in, laughing loudly. 

"Great party down there, Chaz," Scott told him, "You really should have a look." 

"Your brother's certainly enjoying it." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Charlie said, pulling out a drink and closing the icebox door. 

"He's not bad, really," said Ian. 

"Yeah, when he's not all stinky," jeered Scott. 

"Much more fun than _you _lately_... _who's that crying?" 

"_Fred_, you pair of thick drunken idiots." Charlie unscrewed the bottle. 

Ian and Scott looked queerly at each other. 

"Merlin's Beard, are we drunk," said Ian. 

"Fred your brother?" asked Scott, gesturing at the bathroom. 

"Yes, of course Fred my brother- who do you think, Fred my girlfriend?" 

Ian's eyes grew very wide. "What's he crying about?" 

"His twin brother died seven years ago, today, prat." 

Scott and Ian stared at him, their mouths flopped open. 

"I've told you all about my family," Charlie continued, "Remember when my brother George died? I was gone for a year?" 

They didn't respond, frozen. 

"_Hello_? What's wrong?"

Ian's eyes floated aimlessly around the room. 

Scott took a healthy swig of his beer. "Well, Chuck, it's like this-"

"Does Fred live here?" came a voice from the front door. 

Charlie's drink shattered on the kitchen floor. 

__

I know, I know, I know... I'm sorry... I can't help it. Well, I can... but anyway the next chapter will out tomorrow, hopefully, and please review. As if I have to ask- everyone has been really nice about reviewing- thanks guys! 


	8. The Unbearable Likeness

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, and if you offered me money for this, first I would call you a foolish person, and then I would refused, and tell you that these are JK Rowling's characters! No copyright infringement was intended. Pay no attention to the woman behind the laptop. 

****

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE UNBEARABLE LIKENESS 

Charlie nearly vomited. His terrified blood rushed out of his body and into his head, pounding there, making him weak all over. His mind overloaded and threatened to shut it self off. The boy in the doorway took a step forward and Charlie recoiled in horror, backing himself into the sink until he was sitting on a pile of dirty dishes. 

__

George? 

His tee-shirt had a big, black "G" on it, and blue pajama bottoms- wasn't that what he'd been wearing the morning-?

His hair was cut just how George used to keep it, but the way he looked timidly about the room did not look like George at all…

The water from the dishes was soaking into the back of his pants. He stared for a long, long time at the boy, and a dish broke under his bottom before he was able to crawl out of the basin. Retaining the very last little bit of his sanity, he held the boy at arm's length - that's exactly what he was, still just a boy, his pores had not enlarged with age, he did not have the beginnings of fine lines as Fred did- he looked just as Charlie remembered him, the night before he died.

George was standing in front of him. George, who had died in his arms. George, whom he was not able to save from death. George, that he and Ron and Bill had spent hours digging a deep enough hole for. George, who Charlie had taken into his arms one last time, and lowered him into this hole, with a back and head and heart ache that still had yet to go away. 

Charlie had seen the death in George's eyes. He'd seen the sheer fear, he'd seen George realize that his big brother would not be able to save him. He had seen George look desperately around for Fred in his final moments- and that looked burned him. Worse than any dragon, and would always be with him, until the day he died himself. 

"Who are you?" Charlie demanded, his face twisted in grief and anger. "Why are you doing this?" 

The boy laughed at him. The way George used to laugh, though this laugh indicated that he was nervous and didn't comprehend the accusation. 

Everything blurred in front of Charlie, and for a moment he feared he might faint. He leaned on the icebox for support, his legs mush beneath him. 

"You have two seconds to leave. You can't be…" he choked. 

"Say, Chuck, what's going on?" Scott wanted to know. 

"I can't be what?" 

Charlie released the boy and took a moment to gain his composure. He rubbed his eyes. "Fred?" 

"Does Fred live here? I'm looking for my brother Fred," the boy came into the house, toward Charlie, "I'm his twin brother, George."

"Look here, boy," said Ian, scowling at him, "If you was going to play such a tasteless prank, you couldn't at least done your research. If you're George than he's your brother, too." 

The George's eyes brightened. "You're my brother, too?"

"You're caught," said Scott. Both of Charlie's flat mates were inching slowly toward the boy, circling him. He began to look a bit nervous. 

"Tell me who you really are." Charlie whispered. 

"Well I'm not Fred," he laughed again, a little uneasily, "I _am _George. Who else would I be?" 

"No... no!" Charlie insisted. "You are not George. George is dead. How could you expect me to believe-" 

"I'm not dead!" 

"Yes, you are! I mean yes, he did. He died-"

"I did no such thing."

"You'd better leave off, kid." said Scott darkly. 

"YES HE DID!" Charlie screamed, "HE DID HE DID HE DID! How could you think this is funny? This is your last warning- I don't want to hurt anybody… if my poor brother comes out here and sees you-"

"I didn't die," said George indignantly, crossing his arms. "And I need to find my brother Fred. We're twins."

"What's all the noise?"

If Charlie had time to think, he would've done anything to prevent what happened next. Just as he was lunging at the George, Fred appeared in the doorway. His face was puffy from crying and still obstructed by the stubble of a beard. He was skeletal in Charlie's bathrobe, and when he spotted the boy who claimed to be George, he looked very, very old, and ready to vomit, as Charlie had moments earlier. He fell against the door frame and began to shake, gaping at the boy.

"Fred!" The boy shrieked. 

Charlie grabbed the back of his shirt so he could not move.

Fred swayed. His eyes began to roll back, but he shook it away, slid down the door frame and knelt, hyperventilating, on the floor. His brain seemed to be struggling to keep working. 

Tears sprung to Charlie's eyes. He charged once again at the boy.

"This is a sick joke," Charlie hissed, shaking the George, "Tell me who the fuck you are!" 

"I-I-"

"DID YOU DIG HIM UP?" Charlie roared, "For the hair?" 

"W-what?"

"THE HAIR! FOR THE POLYJUICE, YOU _SICK FUCK_!"

"George?" came Fred's weak voice from the doorway. He was still on his hands and knees, staring at the floor with huge, petrified eyes. "Is it you?" 

"It can't be, Freds-"

"Yes, yes Fred, of course its me!" 

Charlie, blind with rage, smacked the boy, hard, with a closed fist.

Fred and George yelped in unison. Charlie was stunned to see Fred rubbing the side of his head. Everything went deadly silent, Scott and Ian circling around the boy and Charlie, Fred white as death, staring at the floor. Charlie looked down at the George, who in turn looked back with round and innocent eyes. He blinked, obviously frightened that Charlie might snap him in half. It was that looked- the same look Fred was in the habit of giving him- like Charlie was a mean and intimidating. 

"Let him go, Charlie." 

"No! He's dead! George is dead! You've got to remember-"

"I can take care of myself, Charlie. Let him go." 

Charlie ignored him, shaking the George, "I'll see you Kissed for this, and then I'll kill you myself!" 

"You want me to have to see that twice?" Fred said vacantly, sitting back on his knees.

"I cannot allow this to happen. There is no way, Fred, people _cannot_ come back from the dead-"

"I know it's always been your place to try and protect all of us, Charlie," Fred said calmly, "but this is what I've been waiting for. I've felt him growing closer. I knew he was coming here."

"You're ill, Freds, please," Charlie pleaded, "please don't let this bastard-"

"I can take care of myself." 

"NOT IN MY HOUSE YOU WON'T!" 

Fred shut his eyes tight, squeezing the doorframe. Tears were threatening to drown his face. "Give me five minutes alone with him, and then we'll leave." 

Charlie knew that he had two choices, both of which were equally miserable. He could toss the boy out, or escort him into the main hall of the dorm and kill him. Fred would hate him and continue his search until he was old and gray. His other choice was letting Fred find out for himself. Perhaps Fred would finally be able to except- or perhaps he would go catatonic with insanity… at least that way Charlie could look after him. 

There was no right choice, but whether the George was murdered now or in five minutes would make no difference to Fred's mental health. 

Charlie let the boy go. 

He ran to Fred, dropping down to be at eye level, and Fred lifted his eyes to look at him. 

"Where have you been?" Fred asked as his hand slid around his brother's back. 

"I don't know." 

Charlie was disturbed to see that this answer was good enough for Fred. And the look of relief on his face- had it really been George- the look of relief on Fred's face would have lifted every bit of the suffocating weight on Charlie's shoulders. That look would have lightened his very soul… 

But no. 

They were no longer identical. Fred had aged too fast. Though it showed little in his skin, his eyes and face weary with age and travel. As the twins embraced Charlie could see, after the initial relief of having his so-called brother back, that Fred was struggling to believe.

Charlie walked around so he could see the face of the boy who said he was George. A vacant, mindless smile; nothing deceitful. The George helped Fred off the floor and they disappeared in the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them.

Charlie didn't know what to do. 

He thought of the rest of his family. What would they think? What of Percy? 

"I don't know" was not a good enough answer for Charlie. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, nearly punching Ian in the nose. Ian ducked and fell over, spilling his beer- by now alcohol was drying and sticky all over the flat. 

"Whoa, Charlie," he said. 

"What?" Charlie barked. 

"What is-"

"I don't know. Why don't you go back to the party?" 

"Fitzie's already passed out- seriously Charlie, what is going on?" 

"My brother has apparently come back from the dead," he replied, hardly believing what had just come out of his mouth. He reached for a chair and sat hard. 

"This is dark magic, this is," commented Scott, who had shuffled over. 

"You reckon somebody's used Polyjuice?" whispered Ian. 

"Obviously, idiot." 

"So tie him up for an hour." 

"How long was he at Fitzie and Darla's?" 

"Well, he wasn't, until Darla invited him in." 

"What was he doing?" 

"Wandering the halls, I guess." 

"The door was wide open. He came in and was asking for himself- at least we thought he was asking for himself-"

"-we just played along... we thought he was having some sort of loony episode."

"Well, how long was- how long was he there after that?" 

"I don't know... I guess she told him to come in around..." Ian scratched his head. "What time is it?" 

"Almost nine." 

Scott and Ian looked at each other, confused. "I guess it's been well over an hour then." 

Charlie groaned and slouched. "Did you see him drink anything?" 

Ian shrugged. "A sip of beer." 

"Chuck," said Scott, "It's feeding time. We forgot to do it at three."

"Tell Sam I'm having a family emergency. I can't be rounding up pigs right now. Just go… I need to be alone with this." 

"Do you need anything?"

"Just go, please." 

Alone in the kitchen, Charlie went once again to the icebox. He paused as his hand closed around a bottle of beer. He left it on the shelf and opened the freezer, reaching for the Odgen's Old Firewhiskey that was strictly reserved for Saturday nights. So it was Friday. What did it matter?

He took the entire bottle back to the table with him and slouched over it, wiping its cold surface over his forehead. His mind was blank. 

Suddenly his brother was standing next to him. Charlie jumped. 

Fred pulled up a chair. "He says he's eighteen. He asked me why I look so old." 

"You don't honestly believe-"

"It's George," Fred replied, licking his lips, "But it's not. I don't know how to explain it any better." 

Charlie gagged as he took a swig from the bottle. "Honesty, Fred, honestly now- you don't remember anything from that morning?" 

Fred's eyes became wet. He went to his giant hiking pack, and after a little while of digging, produced his wand. He came back to the table and conjured a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and offered it to Charlie, who declined, taking another drink. 

"Since when do you smoke?" 

"Since right now." 

"So you remember." 

Fred nodded sadly, wiping away a tear that was dripping down his cheek. "I don't remember it happening. I- I can't remember that. There was a time when I suppose I did… I remember that's what everyone told me. I remember George putting a gumball in his mouth, and then I woke up one day in a strange place. Even though Bill was right there in the next bed, sick, I knew I was alone. All I could remember or feel was that I was alone, and I hated Percy."

"And that's it?"

"Alone, Charlie. Single. You have no idea what that feels like. How scary it is. Imagine waking up one morning with your legs gone. Wouldn't you still try and wiggle your toes, Charlie?"

Fred paused, but clearly didn't expect an answer. 

"How could I except what people told me, Charlie? How could I believe George was dead if I didn't remember it? I told myself he had to be out there somewhere. But I couldn't ignore the silence inside of me- it's like his thoughts and feelings were always running in the back of my mind- I didn't notice them until they were gone- that's what made it so hard to believe he was still alive... I started telling myself lies… but it's loud and clear, now. George really did die, didn't he?" 

Charlie nodded, his eyes stinging, his throat swollen and tight.

"He's asleep now," Fred continued, gesturing at the bedroom door, "He was exhausted. He came a long way by himself. I know that's not the George who died in there, but I know it's not someone trying to trick me. I can see what he's dreaming about in the back of my head right now. He's confused. He doesn't know where he came from. He thinks like a child."

"Who is he, then?" Charlie asked shrilly. He was beginning to feel a little drunk. 

"It's like- it's like someone made him... like a shadow, or shell, or copy of George. I don't feel the same connection with him as I had with Georgie, because I didn't grow up with him, but it's still George. It's still my twin, I can feel it. Made of all the same stuff that George was, but it's like he's brand new. " 

Fred butted his cigarette. Charlie rubbed his eyes, trying hard to process all that his brother had just said. "This is insane, Freds." 

"I know." 

"I can't trust anything you say," Charlie told him gently, "You've been sick in the head for a long time. I can't know that what you think you feel is really what you feel. We need to take him to the Ministry and find out what the hell he is." 

"I am _not _sick in the head. I thought I just explained that to you." 

"You say someone made him. Who? Why?" 

"I don't know that." Fred lit another cigarette, choking on it. "He doesn't know who you are. You scared him. You should apologize." 

"If it's 'a copy' of George, then how could he not know who I am?" 

"He only knows what he'd learned since he was created… and that I missed him and wanted to find him."

"How in Merlin's Beard can you be sure of all this?"

"He's my twin." 

Charlie was getting frustrated. "How the hell can he be your twin if Mum didn't give birth to him?" 

Fred spoke slowly and deliberately, in a manner that infuriated Charlie. "He is an exact replica of George." 

"That's like saying if I have two identical cloaks, they're the same cloak!" Charlie waved his hands, "But they aren't, because here's one cloak and here's the other. By that logic, you could say that since George was your identical twin that you're the same person." 

"Exactly. When we were born, we were. Then we grew and learned and slight differences occurred. The George in your bedroom is not my George from seven years ago, but is somehow made from George. I know that because I feel it. And so he's as much my twin physically as George was. Like I said, it's George, but it isn't." 

Charlie didn't know whether to believe this lunacy or cry or rejoice or get mad. He settled for gulping down a bit more firewater. "And you're fine with this?" 

"Fine with what?" 

"With this… 'replica' of George?" 

"Of course. He's George."

"_He's not George!" _

"I'm responsible for him." 

"_Why?_"

"Because he's my twin!" 

"Don't you think this is odd? Don't you wonder where the hell he came from?" 

Fred shrugged.

"This kind of magic doesn't exist!" 

"Yes it does," Fred told him, "Even Muggles can do it. They just need a lot of machinery."

Charlie blinked several times. He brought the bottle back up to his mouth and chugged, not caring that the whiskey was dripping down his chin and the front of his shirt. 

It was too much. All too much. 

"This is insane. I can't deal with this. You're my brother, Fred, and I love you, and you are always welcome here, but I can't deal with any 'replica' of George. People don't come back to life!" 

"Stop drinking, you'll make yourself sick," Fred reached for the bottle, but Charlie jerked it away. 

"I want you and your carbon copy out of here by tomorrow morning. When you come to your senses and realize that he's got to take a drink of something every hour in order to stay your twin, you can come cry on my shoulder, but until then…" 

Charlie trailed off, took another drink, and collapsed on the table, hugging the bottle close. 

__

Just thought I should mention, in case any of you disagree with me referring to an eighteen year old as a boy, I'm twenty- one, so to me he is. My boyfriend is almost twenty-four and I'm still waiting for him to grow up… anyway, sorry to those of you who wished the story would lighten up. Not in this chapter. I fear that now I'm going to lose half my readers because you must be terribly disappointed. Here, maybe this will make you feel better. 

TRELAWNEY AND FLEUR : A TRADGEDY UNFORSEEN 

PART TWO: FLEUR SUCKS

Rated R see above for disclaimer. 

Bill didn't attend the funerals. He didn't have any clean underwear and well, what if there was a car wreck at the burials? What if he was unconscious and unable to make excuses for his less-than-fresh drawers? No, it just wouldn't do. 

He was kinda sorta starting to feel a little bit bad about it, but Charlie was kind enough to remind him that there weren't any funerals to attend, as the bodies of Fleur and Trelawney were never recovered (nobody bothered to look for them). 

Charlie suggested they go to Snape's kegger instead. 

It was a wild party. There was like, five hundred kegs there, and it was the good stuff, not crappy beer like PBR or Hamm' s. 

But then tragedy struck. Right after the cops left for the fourth time, just as the party was peaking, and they broke out the bottle and started to spin it, and Ron was swinging his shirt over his head, and Charlie was already collecting dollars from the ladies, and Ginny was that close to losing it with (insert your favorite pairing here), and Madam Pince was letting her hair down, and Sirius was like, hanging from a tree, and no one knew how he got up there, but he couldn't get down, and they were all searching around for their wands but Snape had wisely put them all in a bowl of water in the freezer so no one could do any drunken magic, and everyone was yelling "Jump, Sirius, we'll catch you," the giant squid surfaced from the water and with an irritated squawk, threw Fleur's body right up onto the deck. 

It was gross. 

The grossest part was that she was still alive and well. Luckily, before she could open her annoying little mouth, they threw her back in. 

Don't worry, Sirius got down fine. 

THE END

Once again, I apologize. It's really late. Feeling a little loopy.


	9. Choices

DISCLAIMER: See all the other chapters. Nothing had changed. 

****

CHAPTER NINE

CHOICES

"Wake up, Mr. Minister Weasley."

The voice was freezing cold. Percy shuddered, awoke, yawned; tried to wake as peacefully as possible. He rolled over (_like a good little lap dog)_ and turned to face his Master, glad for once that he was nearly blind. 

"The happy twinsies were reunited today. " 

"They were?" said Percy, (_my wrong is righted)_ his words breathless with relief, "Do you think he'll forgive me? Do you think everything will be alright now?" 

He had said the wrong thing. His master stared down at him, like a bomb seconds away from exploding. 

"Not that I care," Percy lied quickly, "When you first came to me I did, but no more-"

"Shut your spineless little mouth," his master said in a dangerous calm, "it is _painfully _clear that you are beyond hope. I _know _you care about your miserable brothers, and will use that to my advantage." 

"W-what do you mean, Master?" Percy faltered. 

"I need one more favor of you." 

_(to be expected)_

"What?" 

Voldemort laughed hysterically, slapping his knees, clutching his belly.

Percy sat up, reaching for his glasses. He knocked over a glass of water on the night stand, and it seemed _(i hope)_ that his Master might die laughing. 

"I have them, Percy. Don't bother yourself. I like you better blind."

"What else do you want from me?" Percy cried.

"It was easy enough to replicate George's body… couldn't use the old one, ah, what a mess that was. Hardly anything left-"

"PLEASE DON'T TALK LIKE THAT!" Percy slapped his hands over his ears. 

Voldemort waved his wand and Percy was forced to stand at attention. His master further amused himself by having him salute. (_don't you fucking cry don't you fucking cry you deserve this humilation)_

"I thought you didn't care, Minister. I thought you were evil incarnate. Hmmm?" He threw Percy back on the bed. "Enough fun. I'll come to my point. George will return to his full self, and they will be the happy Weasley Twins once again, and I will take away your nightmares- in fact, I'll make all of you forget this ever happened- if you tell me where your family is hiding." 

"WHAT?" Percy squeaked. "I could never- exchange one for my whole family?"

"No- silly boy. Exchange your guilt for Ron." 

"Ron?" 

"He knows who keeps Harry's Secret. I know he does." 

"Of course he doesn't! I don't even know where _we _were hiding!" 

"Percy." Voldemort said sickly-sweetly, "Tell me who his Secret Keeper is. Tell me who knows. Who knows who it is, Percy? You know you want to tell me." 

"I DON'T KNOW!" 

"Your family doesn't care about you," Voldemort told Percy as if he were an idiot for ever thinking so, "The only reason they had you is because they already had two strapping boys. They were trying for a girl, weren't they Percy? And you weren't a girl, and then the twins were born and you were forgotten, weren't you Percy?"

"My parents love me!"

"I'll kill George. I'll follow in _your _footsteps. Imagine how poor Fred would feel… seeing his twin brother die _again." _

"I don't know where he is! I don't know who keeps his Secret! I don't have any idea!" Percy found himself groveling at Voldemort's feet. "Please leave my family alone- I'll do anything I can, please fix George- I don't know where my family is, they gave me a precise time to Apparate out!"

"Really?" Voldemort said. 

Suddenly Percy was groveling in front of nothing. 

****

Bill had no clue where he was. He'd made it nearly two miles away from the hiding place before another attack of the heaviness hit him. He was surrounded by crowds of American Muggles. 

"He's drunk!" one of them decided. 

"Call C.H.E.I.R.S.!" said another.

Finally one bent down close enough for Bill to whisper in his ear, "I'm fine. Let me alone. I'll be fine in a minute." 

"He's British!" That particular Muggle declared, and everyone murmured excitedly, as if that fact was important. 

From far away Bill heard a horrible wailing noise that seemed to be getting louder and louder. He tried to ignore it and persuade his body to move, but between it and the Muggles he wasn't doing well. 

After a few minutes the crowd stepped back, and Bill felt himself being rolled over on his back and lifted. He was on some sort of bed, and Muggles in uniforms were pulling his eyelids apart and putting their hands all over him. 

"Leave off!" Bill cried. Now that he was on his back, he could talk much louder. "I'm fine! Just let me alone!" 

Once of the uniformed Muggles pulled a horrible mask over his mouth. Bill panicked, flailing about as best he could, but the heaviness showed no signs of relenting. He was loaded in a van, where the Muggles continued to poke and prod at him. He was staring to feel weak… somehow, in all the confusion, he grew very drowsy… 

He woke up with no memory of even shutting his eyes. He was in the whitest room he had ever seen. Long, glowing rods encased in some sort of weird material hung from the ceiling. He was still too heavy to move, so he called, "Where am I!" 

A Muggle in a tiny white dress came running over. "John! You're awake." 

"Where am I? Why do you call me John?" 

"Oh, sorry honey. Someone stole your wallet, so we've been calling you John Doe. You're in the hospital, honey. You had a seizure." 

"I did not. I-" Bill stopped. How could he possible explain it to a Muggle? 

"Don't get excited, now, honey. You got any family you want us to call?" 

"No," Bill said irritably. He didn't like the way the Muggle was snapping her gum, or the weird way she was looking at him. 

"Do you want to sit up?" 

"Certainly, if that were in any way poss-" Bill was silenced again. With a growl, the bed seemed to come alive. It was actually elevating! He didn't have time to be amazed, for he looked down at himself and screamed. There was a tube coming out of his arm, running up to a hanging sack full of liquid. "Merlin's Beard, what have you done to me?" 

"Come down, honey, it's just an IV. We'll take it right out when you're ready to leave." 

This information provided little comfort, but as Bill could not move, there was not much he could do. 

"Do you feel up to answering a few questions, sweetie doll?" The girl asked, winking at him. Bill was taken aback. He didn't answer. "Good. What's your name, sweet thing?" 

"Bill." 

The Muggle girl giggled. "I'm gonna need your full name, honey." 

Bill rolled his eyes. The girl seemed not to notice. "William Arthur Weasley." 

"Do you have insurance, Billy?" 

"What in the bloody hell is _insurance_?" 

The girl emitted the most horrendous, high-pitched laughter that Bill had ever heard. Voldemort himself couldn't have done worse. "Your accent sure is cute, darling. We'll take that as a 'no.' Any allergies?" 

Bill had no idea what an "allergies" was. He decided, as the risk of hearing her laugh again, that it would best to just answer no.

"And have you had epilepsy since you were a child, Billy?" 

"Epil what?" 

The Muggle raised a drawn-on eyebrow. "Alright, honey. Where are you from?" 

"Ottery St. Catchpole." 

He didn't know how he managed to do it again, but winced as that hideous laughter emerged from her heavily glossed mouth again. 

"And do you know who Harry Potter's Secret Keeper is, baby doll?"

If Bill was able to move, he would have ended up on the ceiling with the bright lights. Instead he could only gape. "W-what did you say?"

"You heard what I said, Bill." The woman said, her lips curling grotesquely into an evil smile.

"Who the hell are you?" Bill cried. 

"Tell me, Bill. I'm simply dying to know!" The torturous giggle again, then she looked at him inquisitively. "Don't you just hate being this way? All lethargic and weighted down? I can fix it, you know. You'll be normal."

She clasped her long hands together and brought them to her cheek, her penciled eyes raised toward the ceiling in mock-dreaminess. "You'll be able to fulfill your dreams!" 

"You're lying," Bill spat. 

"Am I, Bill?" she said, taking a step back. She outstretch her arms, and in a with a _pop!_ became a man, dark-haired with nice teeth, wearing a black cloak. From the cloak he produced a wand, and when he waved it Bill was flying toward the ceiling, light as a feather-

Back to normal. 

"Planning ahead is important, Bill, remember that. Always plan ahead." 

Bill's first impulse was to run away, but was too frightened of the tube in his arm. The man seemed to sense this, and with another wave of his wand, Bill was incapacitated again. 

"See? I can do anything, Bill." 

Bill stared at him. The man's smile fell. 

"Well, don't you even want to know how I did it? After every healer east of the Atlantic tried and failed?" 

Bill didn't move a muscle. 

"Because I put it on you, Bill." He looked pleased when Bill's face registered surprise. "Come now, you didn't honestly think your silly brothers were capable of such a curse, did you? Plan ahead, Bill. Always plan ahead., whenever you can." 

"Who are you?" Bill repeated. 

"Who else?"

Bill was beginning to wish he'd stayed at home. 

"So, without further ado, I offer you a choice. I can gather from the fact that you were found lying face down on a Muggle street corner that my little curse is wearing you down, and you can no longer Apparate. Which means you must have found some other way to leave your family's hiding place. You left out the front door, didn't you, Bill?" 

"No," Bill said, "I Apparated to the wrong spot. I'm rusty." 

Voldemort laughed. "You're rusty at _lying._ Surely there must be Apparations wards on the house. I don't think your dear Mummy and Daddy would like the idea of their dying son coming out into the world. I think you had to sneak out, didn't you?"

"No, I told you-"

"You'll never be ill again, Bill. Never. Just tell me where they are. Tell me where Ron is." 

"You honestly think I would sell out my family? I'd rather die," Bill told him firmly. "And I am not ill, and I am not dying." 

"Ah, my boy, you will, don't worry, you will. Slowly. Come to me directly after the next full moon, or you'll be deader than George," Voldemort paused to laugh madly, echoing off the steril walls, "Quite literally." 

The cruel, frozen laughter lingered for too long after he disappeared, and Bill was once again flying toward the ceiling… 

__

Please review! And I have a new fic, if you want to read it. Just look for it under my name. 


	10. One

DISCLAIMER: Monotone drone: Do not sue. Own nothing. Do not make money. So sick of writing disclaimer. Used to be creative about it. Creativity gone. Thank you, come again. 

****

CHAPTER TEN

ONE

"My feet are tired, Fred," George whined, "Are we stopping soon?" 

"Yes, yes, don't worry," Fred assured him, "we're nearly there." 

"Is it nice there?" 

"I don't know if it will be nice anymore. It was always a little shabby, but it's our home."

"Home sounds nice. I like the sound of that." 

"We might have to do a bit of cleaning, but it should be comfortable enough."

"Oh good. I'm awful tired." 

Fred's pulse quickened as they approached the overgrown hedge. He thought giddily of how the garden gnomes must have taken over the whole house by now- if it was still standing. When they came to the structure, Fred stopped, put his arm around George, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

"There it is, George. It's still here." 

"It looks like it might fall down," George giggled, "But it won't, will it, Fred?" 

"No. I won't let that happen. Say, George, you want to do me a favor?"

"Sure," replied George eagerly. 

"See those boots on the front stoop? I want you to put all of them in a neat little row along side of the house, while I go and do something." 

George's brow furrowed with worry. "You're going to come back, aren't you?" 

Fred smiled. "Of course I will. So would you do that for me?" 

Now that the boy was busy, Fred took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to wander over the roofline and to a certain tree that towered over it.

It was time. Of the places he'd traveled over all these years, from Australia to the west coast of the United States, he'd never come back here, to the Burrow, because returning here meant he had to accept the truth. Here meant he had to grieve and cry and know, truly know, that his brother was no longer with him. All that was over now. It had been too long. Charlie was right, and his words echoed in Fred's head- 

__

George wouldn't want you to be like this. 

As soon as he'd heard these words, Fred realized that he'd let himself grow so disillusioned that he no longer knew his own twin brother. Of course George wouldn't leave him and never come back. Of course George wouldn't want him to waste his life searching….

But still, George's death would never be real until Fred saw it himself, and so he took the first step forward, terrified, his entire body shaking. His eyes stung as he rounded the house and looked under George's and his tree. There were six of them in all, one for each child, except them. Charlie's was an oak, near the pond; it was still huge and strong. Bill's wasn't far from it, still alive and well, and slightly taller. Ron's was the size of a tall Christmas tree. Ginny's was a cherry blossom, beautiful and pink in the warmth of the spring. Percy's was a Weeping Willow, and since Fred knew little about trees, he couldn't tell really if it was doing well or not, but seemed to be a bit saggy, even for the kind of tree it was. 

George's and his tree was almost as tall as Bill's, with a thick trunk, and it still bared the scars from when the twins had carved their initials into it as children. On the left, _FW_, on the right, _GW_, just above a rounded mound of dirt and handmade cross that marked the grave. 

Blinded by tears, he hugged himself and forced his legs to move closer. He stopped at the foot of the grave and could not hold in a single, anguished sob. Charlie must have spent a good deal of time, carving these words into the marker, in unsteady lettering:

George Frederick Weasley

1978- 1996

He dropped to his knees in front of it, shaking uncontrollably. He felt like he should have just wanted to throw himself on top of the grave and lay there forever, but instead his first impulse was just to _listen. _He wanted badly to hear something- some trace of his brother that might still be lingering. He knew quite well that ghosts existed, didn't he? 

But he knew there could be no ghost of George. Ghosts were those who died so suddenly that their souls could not rest. George had seen death closing in. He had plenty of time to receive his invitation to whatever the afterlife held.

It was himself, Fred realized, that had been the ghost. 

In the blackness of his closed eyes, a horrible feeling came over him. He was filled with the memory of fear. The fear became solid, real. But he wanted to run _to _it, rather than away from it. He had to go to that fear and chase it away, but something was holding him back. He fought, but they wouldn't let him go- he heard Charlie screaming Percy's name- 

He realized the fear wasn't his. It was George's, and the fear was that of death. It was all coming back to him. He remembered part of himself fading quickly away- his brain becoming silent and dark. Hungry, all the time hungry, as if he were hollow. Gnawing, like someone was taking an ice pick to his stomach, a pain that only grew worse and more intense with time… 

Until the wall had begun to rise. A thick wall that could not fill the emptiness, though it tried, but did managed to numb the pain of it. The wall came up strong, and only then was he able to wake from his nightmare of incoherency, only to enter another nightmare: awareness. Bill had been in the next bed, and Fred welcomed the guilt that came from knowing his eldest brother was unable to move. It was distracting. It strengthened and reinforced the wall. The wall allowed him to believe that George was alive. The wall stood between him and the memory of George's death. 

Fred knew deep down that he wanted the wall to crumble. That was why he had carried pictures of he and George in his wallet. They were Muggle pictures. They'd wandered into a mall one day and had them taken in one of those booths. They were black and white photos, five in row of them striking silly poses with huge smiles. He would often, in his wanderings, end up in different flats of Muggle girls. They seemed to adore him, even in his filthiness. He would awe them with stupid magic tricks. They felt sorry for him. Sometimes, in a flirtatious manner, they would play "What's in Fred's wallet?" and find the pictures. They would gasp and be delighted over him having an identical twin, and he would be able to talk of George like he was still alive. 

"Where is he now?" this girl or that would ask, and Fred would say he didn't know, and cry, and feel the wall weakening with each falling tear. 

But now he knew. 

"I miss you, Georgie," he choked, putting his hands on the dirt, "I'm so sorry… I searched the whole miserable world, and you've been right here the whole time- you know me… never knew my arse from my elbow. I was always the codependent one… who knew?" 

He chuckles miserably, wiped his face, and forced himself to gain his composure. He was sure that George was listening, from somewhere. 

"I'm back, George. I know you'll forgive me for being so silly and weak… You wouldn't believe how bloody _useless _I am without you, you dolt. You know a few years ago I actually ended up in the hospital? Yup. In Vancouver, B.C. That's in Canada. You weren't around to remind me we can't eat oranges. I got so excited, Georgie. I thought I was going to die, I thought I was going to be with you- I think that's when the wall got it's first major crack in it. I thought to myself, 'why do I think I'll be with George? George isn't dead.' And I was so dumb and in denial that I lived." Fred laughed, "Can you believe that? I lived." His throat began to tighten again, but he continued in a strained voice, "I shouldn't have, George. _I _should have tested that goddamn gumball. It would have been better for everyone. You were the one everyone loved, Georgie. I was just the one-sided, zany practical joker. Nothing below the surface, except with you. I wasn't ever interested in really knowing anyone else, not even our own family. I left that up to you. I couldn't stand being around them after you died, George. I didn't know what to do. When they talked to me, I would answer and not know how to finish. I don't like to clarify, George. You know that. I don't like to put any effort into making myself understood. So I never said anything with depth. I left that up to you. You always knew what I was trying to say. I hope you know what I'm trying to say now, cause I know I'm not making much sense…"

Fred stopped when his voice began to crack. He was now laying on one side of the grave, his arm and leg over the mound, his face in the dirt, his eyes closed. "It should have been me. I'm just as much a shell of you as that boy is." 

The air seemed to shift. Fred felt something new. It was an odd sensation. 

It was the sensation of being _disagreed_ with. 

"I hope you don't mind him, George. I don't know where he came from, but he's here, and I have to take care of him now." 

The air seemed to respond. It filled his ears.

__

Of course I don't mind, it seemed to say, _but don't you talk like it should have been you. _

"What the hell was I thinking? So many wasted years, wandering." 

_I would have done the same, _the air around him whispered. 

"You _would not_ have done the same. That's how you and I were different. You always knew what to do- you always knew you arse from a bloody hole in the ground- I should have tried the gumball, not you. It should have been me."

_Stop it. You knew not to reject George. _

"Only because Charlie slapped him. I felt his pain, ten times more than I could ever feel yours. Why is that, Georgie? Why?" 

_He is made from the part of you that is me._

"Have I gone mad? Am I really hearing you speak to me, George?" 

But his concentration was broken. There came no answer. He took a deep breath to relieve some of the pressure in his chest, and didn't jump went he felt warm hands on his shoulders.

"I did it, Fred. All lined up, just like you asked." 

"Thanks, George." Fred rose and brushed himself off. 

George looked down at George's grave and looked very sad. He patted Fred lightly on the back. "It's going to be alright, Fredsie. Everything will be just fine. I don't know much, but I know that." 

By this time Fred was demonstrating one of those strange kind of smiles; a smile that is desperate, yet heartfelt, through a fog of tears, wet and gurgling from snot that has built up in the nose, yet a smile of relief, because the smile has spawned from believed words of condolence. 

Everything would be alright. 

"You're sweet," Fred said to George, trying to wipe away tears that didn't seem to want to stop. "Come on. I'll show you Home." 

"I've got a pain in my stomach, Fred," the boy told him, "Not really a pain- but I don't like it." 

"Show me where." 

"Here. It feels like stuff inside is moving and rubbing together." 

Fred smiled, tousling George's messy hair. "I know what's wrong. You're hungry. We've not eaten." 

"Eaten?" 

"Yeah. Why don't you and meet me by the door. I've got one more thing to do."

"Okay." 

As the boy padded away, Fred turned back to George's grave. "I have to go, brother. But I want you to know that for once, you're right." 

He made his way to the house, and the air that had whispered to him seemed to follow, surrounding him, filling the emptiness inside a little more with each step. 

He didn't need to look back. He had made his peace with George, and they were one again. 

__

Okay, role call. Who is still with me? Let me hear it! Next chapter will be up tomorrow. 

Not to be obnoxious, but for my reviewer who requested that I not make my ANGST fic (definition: torment, sorrow, anxiety, worry) so depressing:

George came back to life, and he and Fred opened their joke shop and lived happily ever after. Voldemort died of a stroke that very same day, and there was lots of dancing and singing in the streets. And never mind all the other plot elements, they all went away and the Weasleys and Harry and Hermione came out of hiding and Fred and George let off a dung bomb and everyone laughed.

Roll credits.

Now, for everyone who finds this ending to be unsatisfying, please read on. 


	11. Reunions and Plans

DISCLAIMER: Good Lord. I don't own Harry Potter, okay? Do not sue. 

****

CHAPTER ELEVEN

REUNION AND PLANS

There was a lot of shrubbery, nothing more. Certainly not the grand affair that Sean was expecting. Though he was reluctant to admit it to Remus, he'd actually been excited to visit a dragon colony. He had imagined a big field with cages as tall as buildings, and that he'd be able to see massive fireballs shooting up into the sky from an hour away. He thought the ground would be shaking and men would be running around in every direction screaming at each other. It was going to be madness, he had been sure of it. 

But it was a like a swamp. The ground was soggy, and all around there were signs reading: KEEP OUT and DANGER, QUICKSAND. Another sign, tacked to the door of a rotting outhouse, which was nailed shut, read: CONDEMNED. 

"Ah ha," said Remus, and he marched forward. 

"We're not actually going in there, are we?" 

"Yes. Come along." 

"Can't you read?" Sean cried. 

Remus stopped. "It's a diversion for Muggles, Sean. Have you never left Outer Hogsmeade?" 

"Of course I have. I've been to Hogwarts. Almost all seven years of it. And Diagon Alley, of course." 

"Unbelievable." 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Let's away. We should have been here yesterday." 

"_You _should have been here yesterday," stressed Sean indignantly, but started to follow Remus through the brush, "_I_ should be at home." 

When they came to the outhouse, Remus rolled up his sleeves and reached into his robe for his wand, then remembered for the tenth time that he didn't have it. 

"Great idea, this was," Sean taunted, "Good thinking, too, by the way; leaving that warehouse without getting our wands back." 

Remus only grunted, trying to pry up a wet branch from the nearby tangle of plants. 

"What in Merlin's Beard are you going to do with that?" 

Remus stood, slightly out of breath, brandishing a frayed twig that he managed to pull off a tree. He pushed his hair away from his face and cleared his throat. As an afterthought he pushed Sean backward a little. He poised the makeshift wand. 

_"Alohomora!" _cried Remus. The door flew upon. He yelped and dropped the stick, clutching his hand and cursing under his breath. His palm appeared to be steaming.

"What did you do?" 

Remus ripped a strip off his robes and wrapped it around his hand. "Don't ever use a piece of wood as a wand unless its an emergency. Or anything else, for that matter."

Sean couldn't help but laugh. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Behind the outhouse door was a hallway. A not too shabby hallway, either, Sean thought, if someone were to mop it. But he still wasn't impressed. The plants that lined the short corridor were yellow and dead. Straight ahead of them was a huge iron gate, which would have looked cool, but directly to the right of it there was a person, a couple of years older than Sean, asleep on top of a large metal desk. As if that weren't unprofessional enough, he had shaggy hair and was dressed in plaid pajamas and fuzzy slippers. He was snoring loudly. Below him, tape to the front of the desk, was a scrolling, flashing sign that read: 

__

Hello, my name is Michael Fitzgerald. Call me Fitzie. It is a pleasure to have you here today. I am delighted to be your tour guide and customer service representative at Zeta, the Last Romanian Colony for Dragons. No, there are still plenty other colonies around, we're just the newest. Our touring hours are 12-5 pm, May through September. It is not May yet, so I'm terribly sorry, but if you aren't on the visitor's list of any of our employees, you simply cannot be allowed in, and there is no reason to wake me. Please feel free to check for your name on the parchment to your left. Just write the name of the person you wish to visit, as well as your own, and the gates will magically open if your are part of their list. It's just that simple! Please think long and hard before you wake me. Thank you and good day, Fitzie. 

"Hello there! We would like to speak to Charlie Weasley, please!" Remus declared after reading the note aloud. 

The young man snorted awake. "Not so loud, please! I've got a bit of a hangover, you know what I mean? I'm sorry, you must be blind. The sign says no tourists. But do come back in a month, and thank you for calling on all of us here at Zeta, the Last-" 

"It's an emergency. I must speak to Charlie Weasley." 

Fitzie gazed blearily at him, looking very resentful and irritated. "Mr. Highly-Qualified-Second-In-Command? Oh, you'll find that dolt on the top floor, bloody _pissed _out of his bloody gourd. First door on the left. He was supposed to be manning the front door today, not me_. I'm _supposed to be in bed with my wife." 

"Thank you," said Remus, "Will you kindly open the gates for us?" 

Fitzie looked suspiciously at him. "Who are you? His uncle or something?" 

"Well- not exactly..." 

"Whatever," Fitzie waved them through before promptly going back to sleep.

Upon entering the building, loud music blasted at them from every direction. Sean had no idea that dragon colonies were run in such a lax manner. There was trash and empty bottles everywhere. At the end of another short hallway was a large common area full of sagging sofas. On the sofas were young men and woman, all looking as sleepy and unenthused as Fitzie at the gate. Some were reading many-week-old issues of the _Daily Prophet, _some seated around tables playing poker and chess, some staring at a little radio in the corner, and still more, just laying there in a foggy-eyed sloth. Sean spotted a rather cute girl and was about to ask her where she bought her robe, but Remus drug him up the stairs. 

A tall man with wild blond hair answered the door and did not look surprised to see two strangers. In fact, he wore a weary expression that indicated he would not be surprised by anything. 

"Good morning," said Remus, holding out his hand. "Remus J. Lupin." 

The man obliged and shook it. "Ian Bergeson. What can I do for you?" 

"We're here to see Charlie Weasley." 

Ian began to blubber, which Sean found to be very funny. "Are you a Ministry inspector? Because I know the place isn't looking so hot, but Sam our supervisor has been out sick and Charlie supposed to have taken over but he's been having some family prob-" 

"No, I'm not an inspector. We would just like speak to him, please. It's rather important." 

Ian looked relieved, to a degree, but still rather nervous. "I don't think you want to see him right now. He's a bit… out of sorts." 

"So we heard," Sean muttered. 

Remus assured him that it was an emergency, and Ian reluctantly let them in. 

The shades were closed and poor light was bleeding in through the curtains, causing the disarray that was the flat seem even messier. The air was stale and smelt of alcohol and clammy bodies. 

Sean coughed dramatically in disapproval and scowled at Remus. He went to the sofa and moved the pillows carefully away, as if they were diseased, and sat.

The man who was Charlie was lying on his side on the floor, next to the table in the kitchen. Near his hand was an empty bottle of liquor, which had apparently rolled away at whatever point he had lost consciousness and fallen off his chair. A man with plain features and a backward Muggle baseball cap was sweeping around him, pushing broken glass under the icebox. Ian introduced him as Scott. 

Ian gestured toward Charlie's unconscious body. "There he is." 

"Visitors, Chazmonster," tittered Scott, poking Charlie on the cheek with the straw of the broom. 

Charlie just laid there. 

"A Mr. Remus Lupin to see you, Charlie," Ian said loudly. 

Charlie mumbled something that sounded like, "go away." 

"It's about your brother, Charlie," said Remus. 

Charlie flinched and rolled over on his stomach, hiding his face. 

"That's no way to get his attention," Scott told them. He bent down to Charlie's ear, and was opening his mouth and filling his lungs to scream, which no doubt would have proved disastrous. It was lucky that just then a man materialized from nowhere, way up near the ceiling, and came crashing swiftly down. Everyone jumped back. Under the weight of him falling, the kitchen table cracked down the middle, scattering wood chippings everywhere. 

"OUCH!" The man cried, looking rather embarrassed. He stood and brushed himself off, then noticed Charlie, lying under one half of the demolished table. "Charlie, what are you doing on the floor?" 

"Now who are you?" Ian demanded. 

The man was oblivious to anyone around him. He pulled out his wand and tried to revive Charlie, but his wand only fizzed and coughed. He sighed. "Charlie it's Bill. Get up." 

"Hope you're not another brother come back to life." 

"Jesus, Scott! Shut up!" 

"What did you say?" said Bill suspiciously. 

"Sorry. He said, 'who are you?'" 

"I'm Charlie's elder brother. What's wrong with him?" 

"Well isn't it obvious?" Scott replied, "He's pissed."  
"Scott!" 

"Could one of you wake him? I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice-"

"I'll have nothing to do with it," said Scott, continuing to sweep, "That boy's scary when he first wakes up, especially after polishing off a bottle the night before." 

"He does this often?" said Bill worriedly. 

Scott shrugged. Bill turned to Remus, who did the same. 

"I'd revive him, but I haven't got my wand," Remus explained. 

He and Bill exchanged formalities and stood together over Charlie with their hands on their hips, wondering what to do. Neither one of his roommates was willing to wake him, and not only that, they promptly abandoned their chores and left the flat. Bill tried again and failed. Remus tried with Bill's wand, and Charlie's eyes flew open for a moment, then sagged shut again. 

"We'll try it the hard way, then," Remus decided, carefully plucking a bowl out of the mountain of dirty dishes. He filled it with water, then muttered a spell that caused it to become so cold that Sean could see chunks of ice floating around in it. 

"Ah," said Bill, chuckling slightly, "He's not going to like this. Better let me do it. He might murder you- he'll just settle for beating the shit out of me." 

Ignoring Bill's recommendation to stand back, Sean tried not to laugh when moments later Charlie sat straight up, soaking wet, sputtering and protesting. About a cupful of the freezing water was all it took to revive him, but Bill poured the entire bowl over his brother's head, then shook off the remaining drops of water. 

"GAH!" Charlie squawked. "Wha- wh- huh?" 

"That teaches you to get so bloody pissed!" Bill scolded, "What do you think you're doing, getting all drunk like this? You could have easily _never _woke up from your stupor!" 

"Bill!" Charlie cried happily, "Bill, you sorry bastard! What the hell are you doing here?" 

Bill helped him off the floor and they hugged, patting each other lovingly on the back. 

"Easy, little brother," Bill wheezed. 

"Sorry. So how are you? Gods Bill, you look like shit. Don't they ever let you outside? Look how pale you are!"

"Don't you try and change the subject," Bill said, removing Charlie's hands from his face. "I want an answer, Charles. What are you, trying to kill yourself?"

Charlie quickly turned to Remus. "Do I know you from somewhere?" 

"We've got some talking to do," said Remus.

"I knew you had a drinking problem," Bill continued, "But really, Charles, lying out on the kitchen floor like a-"

"Leave off! You don't know what happened last night." Charlie said as he dried himself and fixed the table. 

And Sean sat away from everyone else, picking at his fingernails, bored out of his skull, as Remus told Charlie and Bill about the boxcars and the field and the full moon. Thankfully he omitted certain parts, like how Sean had tried to tear Remus apart with his normal teeth, and how he'd cried like a little girl when they'd gone back to his place and found that his family was gone. 

Then Charlie started talking, in a shrill, broken voice, and though Sean pretended he wasn't listening so that Remus wouldn't send him out of the room, he hung on every word. Charlie spoke of his twins brothers, and creepy stuff about one of them dying, and how somehow someone who look exactly like him had shown up in the flat the night before, out of nowhere. 

Bill sighed heavily and asked of Charlie, "Did he really look like George?" 

"Yes. Exactly. And not like Fred does now- like they did when they were younger- that was the scary thing. He was even wearing those same pajamas…" Charlie trailed off, holding his breath, his eyes growing watery. He looked off at nothing, as if reliving a horrible memory. He folded his hands in front of his face, and Sean could see them shaking, even from across the room. 

Bill was looking skeptical. He shook his head at Charlie. "And you let them go. You actually let our poor brother walk out the door thinking he had his George back?"

"I couldn't handle it! I didn't know what to do! Fred was _so bloody _positive that it wasn't someone trying to trick him, and I know it couldn't have been Polyjuice-"

"How could you do that, Charlie?" 

"And what would _you _have had me do?"

"Well not just let him go, surely! Tell somebody? Reason with him?" 

Sean saw that Charlie was getting angry. "You're talking about _our brother Fred, _Bill. Ever tried to reason with Fred?"

Bill continued to shake his head, as if terribly disappointed. "I just thought you were stronger than that." 

"What would you have done?" Charlie snarled, his face tearing up, "What if fucking _George _had walked into your bedroom one day?" 

"You should have kept them here, Charlie," Bill said quietly, "You're his big brother. You're supposed to watch out for him." 

"GOD DAMN IT! I can't be responsible for you anymore!" Charlie screamed, "ANY OF YOU, NOT ANYMORE! It- It's true what everyone says! Mum and Dad _did _have more children that they could raise or afford. They could love us eternally, but it was still _me, _eight-years-old, changing ninety percent of Ginny's diapers and- and chasing the twins around and later keeping Slytherins off of you at school, and even _later _sending half of my bloody paycheck back home to take care of the younger ones- did they ever ask _you _for money, Bill? Not after the accident, they didn't! I can't be responsible for Fred anymore! Fred needs to make his own decisions. Maybe he'll actually learn something_! _Maybe he'll learn that he _doesn't _need George to remind him to bloody eat and sleep and take a shower!" 

During this emotional outburst, Remus slid back a little from the table, looking rather uncomfortable. Sean felt the same. He wished they'd waited a little longer to come here, as to escape these deeply personal family matters. 

"Are you quite finished?" Bill asked. 

Charlie said nothing. He looked infuriated, which to Sean was quite scary, but Bill did not look intimidated.

"It wasn't an accident, Charlie," he said quietly, looking pale. 

Charlie got up and went to the icebox. 

"What are you doing?" 

No reply. 

"Charles, what are you doing?" 

He continued to dig around in the fridge. 

"Charles-"

"I'm getting a drink!" 

"No you're not."

__

"_Who do you think you are?_ Did I ask you to come here?" 

"Shut the fridge. That is no way to deal with anything." 

"That's none of your damn business, Bill! If I want a drink that's my-"  
"Charles," Bill said firmly, "You shut your goddamn mouth and close that fridge _right now_. We've got some very serious things to talk about."

Sean examined his nails while Remus turned to one side and busied himself with pulling loose threads from his robes. Charlie stared hard at the icebox, his eyes burning with anger. A cold mist floated out and made his whole body visibly tremble. He looked at Bill, who was staring at him intensely, and slowly shut the door of the fridge. 

"What do you mean, it wasn't an accident? Are you saying that the twins-"

"The twins didn't do it at all," Bill said, a strange fear coming over his face, "I'm going to die, Charlie. You won't believe-"

"Come on, Bill, I'll admit you're not looking very well, but nothing a little sun and a few square meals won't help." 

"Voldemort came to me, Charlie- I collapsed, and ended up in a Muggle hospital," Bill chuckled a little, "Don't even get me started on _that._ They put this horrible thing in my arm- this tube that dripped liquid…" he shuddered, " and anyway while I was stuck there, he came to me, and said it was him who cursed that gum, and told me that if I didn't tell him who Harry Potter's Secret Keeper was, that I would die." 

"Are you fucking serious?" 

"I am." 

"You could have been hallucinating from something the Muggles gave you."

"I wasn't hallucinating."

"But if these werewolves say-"

"They have names, Charles. Don't be rude- christ, you're always so-"

"_Remus,_" Charlie stressed irritably, "says that he thinks that Percy has become a Death Eater… how could he? And if it's true, why doesn't _Percy _tell him who the Secret Keeper is?" 

"Because Percy doesn't know who it is any more than _we_ do, you dolt." 

"Why would he do that? Why would Percy become a Death Eater?" 

"He promised me that if I told him who it was, I would never be… ill again." 

"_Percy?_"

"No, idiot, Voldemort!" 

"And what does that have to do with anything?" 

"Well… if you said that George… maybe Voldemort told Percy he could bring George back, if Percy would join him." 

"Precisely," Remus interjected gently, "That is exactly what I would conclude. That is what Voldemort does. He seeks out those who already have a weak spot, or something they are desperate for- and offers them what they've always dreamed, whether it can actually be fulfilled, or can only be a half-kept promise, or is just an outright lie. Because once you've got the Mark, you belong to him. Whatever happened to George's wand?" 

Bill and Charlie said they didn't know. 

"It's an ancient spell… and rather simple, for one as powerful as Voldemort, of using the deceased's wand and harvesting Percy's desperation to have George alive again, to create a copy of him. Wizards haven't used it for thousands of years, because the person is never the same. It's often too painful." 

Charlie considered this for a moment, then said to his brother, "Percy's a smart man- surely he wouldn't fall for that?" 

"You remember what he was like after George died. I think he would have done anything to fix it." 

"Voldemort probably didn't mention to your brother that he was only making a copy," said Remus.

"Oh God." Charlie started chewing his thumbnail, "What are we going to do?" 

"I don't know." Bill replied blankly, "I have no idea." 

"We'll just go to Percy- we'll convince him… but he's gotta be far gone." 

"Even if he isn't, convince him of _what?_" 

"Maybe if we find Fred- maybe Fred will forgive Percy… and…"

"And what? We'll all go back into hiding like a big, happy family again? I'm not going back there, Charlie. I'm through hiding. But whatever we're doing, we've got to do it fast." 

"Do _what _fast, Bill? Kill Voldemort? Do you realize what you're saying? What do you propose we do, study out of a book and then go out and try to defeat something that no one else has even been able to get close to?" 

"I am going to die, Charlie. I have until directly after the next full moon," Bill told him again, without a hint of self-pity. "I've got to do something."

Charlie looked unconvinced. "How do you know it's not an empty threat?" 

"I know it's not an empty threat." 

"Well, have you been ill since-"

"No."

"Well how do you know then?"

"BECAUSE I KNOW! I believe him. If he _can _die, we're going to have to do it."

"I think I know what you've got to do," said Remus, "It won't sound very appealing, but if you don't want to go back into hiding, at least not right away-"

"Never." 

"May I just say that this was going to be tried before, long ago- but he was ratted out and killed before-" 

"-spare us the encouraging details, please." 

"Fine. Charlie must to find a Secret Keeper, and both of you need to pay your brother a visit. Next month. Last night I read in the _Daily Prophet _that they're trying to pass a motion to put the Dementors back at Azkaban. Somebody, the 'Mr.Tromedlov,' I told you about most likely, wants them back." 

"I read about that." said Bill. "I thought it was a _mad _idea- bringing back Voldemort's natural allies back to guard the prison. It makes sense now." 

"Well, the article was at Sean's," said Remus, "It was a week outdated-"

"Then it was the most recent edition," Charlie interrupted with a roll of his eyes. 

"Was it?" said Remus curiously, "I wouldn't know. I stopped subscribing quite sometime ago. The article says that by magical law, since what is proposed is so serious, the signature of the Minister of Magic is not good enough on its own. He's got until a certain time to get enough signatures, including Percy's. The day after the next full moon, I'm afraid. Four hundred more were needed, at the time the article was written." 

"Ha. Impossible," Charlie snorted. 

"Not," said Remus very seriously, "I think that's the payment he asked for the werewolves, in return for the cure. I think he asked them to sign, to put the Dementors back in Azkaban-"

"Are _all_ werewolves _that _gullible?" Charlie blurted. Bill smacked him on the shoulder.

Remus gazed at him with a calm, shaming look, a look that would have made Sean want to hang his head and stare at his shoes, pointed inward, like a child. 

"Mr. Weasley," he said quietly, his face expressionless, "It is not a matter of gullibility. It is no less than a dream come true. Being a werewolf can be quite miserable. There is not a lot to do the day after a transformation but wish for a cure, and feel your bones screaming in pain_._" 

_Tell him, Remus! _Sean thought.

"I- I'm very-" 

"Please excuse my brother-" 

"It's alright. I know it's hard to understand." Remus waved the issue away. Sean hated how endlessly even-tempered the man was. "As I was saying, I think we aren't really cured. I think he wanted all of us to go home _thinking _we were cured, so that we would infect our families. More people he could promise a cure to. More people to sign." 

"Why would they trust him? I mean, after he already lied?" Bill said carefully. 

"I think he'll just say there was a mistake. He'll say it was an experiment, and that they discovered it only works if you take it the night before the full moon, and only for that full moon. Then what does he have? At least four hundred more Death Eaters, bribed monthly with a cure. All part of his plan." 

Sean wondered why Remus had never brought this up to him. It was a scary thing for him to think about. He had already grown quite comfortable with the idea of never going through another transformation. 

"The morning after the full moon," Remus continued, "Is Wendy's first birthday. It's perfect-" 

"Who is Wendy?" asked Bill. 

Charlie suddenly looked very guilty. Remus looked uncomfortably back and forth at each of them. He worked his mouth, not knowing what to say. Sean wouldn't have known what to say either. How could Bill not know? She was nearly a year old…

"Charlie who is Wendy?" Bill demanded again. 

"Bill," Charlie began, clearing his throat, "It's like this… Percy and Penny have a baby." 

Bill's jaw dropped, and his eyes grew as big as salad plates. He looked torn between happiness and insult. "You're joking."

Charlie shook his head no. 

"And he didn't tell Mum and Dad? And how is it that a Mr. Remus Lupin knows and his own family doesn't?" 

"We don't need to talk about this right now," replied Charlie, fidgeting. 

"How does he know when Percy's own family doesn't, Charles?" Bill repeated. 

Charlie shot Remus an apologetic look. Remus leaned back from the table, as if to say he was, once again, out of the conversation.

"He's the Minister of Magic. Everyone knows. I guess he managed somehow to keep it from all of you," Charlie said, "This is what he said to me when he poked his head through the fireplace a year ago, after she was born, Bill. He said, 'she's so beautiful, Charlie. I really don't deserve to have a child so beautiful. Mum and Dad would never forgive me.'"

"Mum and Dad would never forgive me?" Bill reiterated, as if the statement were totally absurd. "What in Merlin's Beard did he mean by that?"

"I told him he was wrong, that of course Mum and Dad would want to hear about their first grandchild, but he made me promise not to say anything. He swore he would tell them eventually." 

"Wendy," Bill whispered, showing a hint of happiness for the first time. "Blimey, Chucky, we're uncles.! Wow. Percy a dad… did he ever send you pictures or anything?" 

Charlie shook his head. "I never heard from him again." 

"So you must visit Percy on her birthday," Remus interrupted, "Early, before Penny or any of her family arrive. Because Percy won't be at the Ministry office with other Death Eaters, he'll be at home, making your chances of survival greater. Voldemort will hopefully visit him there, to get the final signature he'll need. I'm sure he'll feel safe at Percy's, so he'll come alone. He won't be able to see Charlie if his Secret is Kept. Your only hope is for Charlie to kill Voldemort while he is distracted with Bill." 

"How in Merlin's Beard am _I _going to kill _him_? What about Percy?" 

"I will teach you _Avada Kedavra_." 

"You know the Death Curse?" said Charlie suspiciously. 

Remus smiled. "Yes, Charlie. Even werewolves-"

"That's- that's not what I meant-" 

"It's alright," Remus assured him. 

"But you probably haven't used it for years and years," Bill pointed out, "Are you sure you can still do it? And what about your wand?" 

"Somehow I'll have to get a new one," replied Remus, "and the Death Curse is like riding a broomstick- though a great deal more unpleasant- you never forget how." 

"So that's our plan," said Charlie brokenly, "We're going to find me a Secret Keeper, _somehow_, and we're going to go to Percy's and wait for Voldemort, and I'm going to attempt to kill him, _somehow_, before he kills Bill, and hope Percy doesn't kill both of us?" 

"You are not helping," Bill snapped. 

"Well, _blimey_, Bill, this is fucking scary!" 

Bill's eyes suddenly went out of focus. He swayed, standing unsteadily. 

"What's wrong?" Charlie asked as his brother leaned on the table, one hand on his forehead. "Are you starting to feel-

"No, it's not that," Bill said weakly, "I just don't feel well. I'm just tired." 

"Sit down," said Charlie with worry in his voice. 

"I'm fine," Bill insisted, pushing Charlie away and stumbling the short distance out of the kitchen and to the sofa in the front room. "I'm just tired. This has all been a bit much." 

Sean stood quickly as Bill collapsed on the sofa. He gave Remus a lost look. Remus barely said his name before Sean guessed that he was going to be sent out of the room. He was right. He was asked to go into the bedroom and look at Charlie's Quidditch books. Instead he lingered by the door and looked through the keyhole. He could see Charlie bent over his brother on the sofa, but nothing more. 

"It's just as well," Remus said quietly after Charlie tried a few times to wake Bill, who had fallen asleep almost immediately. He lowered his voice, eyeing the door to Charlie's bedroom. He asked to borrow Charlie's wand, and cast a spell of silence over the room, so that Sean did not hear the last of their conversation: "Just to be safe, I didn't want to say this in front of either of them. I'm going to make Sean your Secret Keeper." 

Charlie's expression was dark. "What, that boy you've brought? Who is he?" 

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure he'll be a werewolf the night before you go to your brother, and quite incapable of telling anyone your secret. The next day will be very difficult for him. It will be his first time without Wolfsbane. He'll be very ill. If he's conscious at all, or if we don't transform, I'll give him a sleeping draught. He won't be physically capable." 

"Why the boy?" said Charlie, unconvinced, "Why not you?" 

"Because _you'll _be _my _Secret Keeper. That will protect you against me, and if Voldemort approaches Sean, he won't see me, and I'll kill the bastard myself."

"You're not planning on transforming _here, _are you?" 

"Of course not." 

"And you're actually capable of preposterously complicated magic like this?" 

Remus smiled crookedly. "Charlie… yes. Yes I am." He wanted to say much more, but held his tongue. 

"What about Percy? We don't know if he's actually gone bad or if Voldemort has him under some weird spell or both. He'll be able to see me. He'll be able to see and kill me." 

Remus sighed. "You might have to kill him as well." 

"I couldn't do that! He's my brother!" 

"I don't know what else to tell you. I don't know what else can be done. Even killing Voldemort would probably only be temporary. But perhaps, like last time, it will take a few years for him to return… maybe we can all have a few more years of happiness." 

Charlie's face hardened with determination. "We'll have to give it a shot." 

__

Thank God I've finally finished this chapter. Sorry it was so damn long. I'm also sorry I lied and said this would be out "tomorrow." I thought I could do it, but I just had so much to explain in the chapter, and I wasn't happy with it, and still wasn't happy with it, and I edited and revised it about three million times and then I completely rewrote it, and now I am sure that if I read this same material one more time I will vomit all over my keyboard! But I'm sure that future chapters will come much easier. So, I hope it turned out alright, and if so PLEASE TELL ME!!! If not, don't tell me. Lie. I worked way too hard for anyone to tell me it sucked. Thank you. Now, off to revise chapter four of CSD…

I would like to take a moment to thank my trusty laptop, Harriet. Without you, baby, none of this would be possible. I love you! 


	12. Layer Upon Layer

DISCLAIMER: I don't make any money and wouldn't presume to. No copyright infringement is intended. My only payment is REVIEWS!!!! (how's that for subtlety?)

****

CHAPTER TWELVE

LAYER UPON LAYER

He sang quietly, dancing her (_my little angel)_ gently back and forth, surprised by the sweetness of his own voice. She giggled and slobbered on him. "…you can't keep your eyes open, gosh you're awfully seepy, you can't keep your eyes open…" he sing-songed, laughing with her. 

"Trying to make her deaf, are you?" 

Percy cringed at the sound, holding his little girl tight. She seemed to know, and hid her face in the crook of his neck. "You're breaking rules." 

_(god did I just say that?) _

His Master chuckled. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, my boy. Where's the lovely wife tonight?" 

Percy's face became an expressionless mask. 

"Pretty pathetic, Percy. You don't even know, do you?" 

(_I can stand it no more)_

"Why did you come here?" Percy asked bravely, yet unable to hide the fear in his voice. He kissed Wendy and laid her down, spinning the mobile around for her to play with, to avoid his Master's gaze, which he could feel burning into the back of his head. "You're not to come here, to my daughter's room. I- I d-don't ever want her to have to look at your face. Please go." 

While Voldermort laughed at this, Percy felt his courage wavering. He took hold of Wendy's little hand and she squeezed it tight, as if to support him_ (I truly don't deserve you). _

"I know where Penny is," his Master taunted. 

(_so do I)_

"I don't care. I would just like you to leave, please," he repeated lamely. 

His master made a mock noise as if his feelings were hurt (_what feelings?)_. His breath was hot and nauseating, like the smell of fresh tar, on Percy's neck. "Oh, Percy. Why do you speak to me like this? Could I not murder your daughter right now, before your eyes? Could I not have George die the same death that Fred witnessed so long ago? Could I not murder your elder brothers and destroy your home, and then make it look like you did it? Could I not murder your wife, become her, and expose you for the double-crossing, yellow, guilt-soaked little Death Eater that you are? Look at your arm, Percy. You belong to me forever now. Do not speak to me like I am-"

"Just please leave, M-master- I-I am eternally grateful," Percy stuttered (_he cannot be stupid enough to believe my words), _"that you have given me power… that you have given….given… give…" He trailed off. Wendy giggled, the lining of her crib blocking Voldemort from view, and Percy's stomach hurt so that he doubled over. Wendy squeezed his hand tighter. He felt a sickly mix of courage (_it is time to stand up to him) _and guilt; not the old guilt that festered every day within him, but a brand-spanking-new guilt…

_(what the hell have I been doing? Wendy… how did I trust this monster?)_

Yes, he knew where his wife was, and didn't blame her one bit. Perhaps the Other Man was a Muggle, perhaps not. All Percy knew, or even cared about, was that the Other Man had brown hair, and his daughter's was red, like his. 

She was his. 

At least Penny had given him Wendy before she lost interest. Now she hardly bothered to come home. If Percy had not lost his ability to feel any emotion but his guilt (_its like a second head or a third eye), _he might have been hurt, but that was not the case. 

(_guilt is all I am)_

For a long time he was not even sure if what he felt for his daughter was love. Perhaps it was just another film of guilt, another layer upon the endless layers. But at the same time he realized that he would gleefully die so that Wendy would never have to frown, not once, he also realized that that feeling could not be guilt. And that brought him an ounce of joy. Somewhere in his withered, suffocating heart he was still a human being. He was still capable of love. 

And Wendy's laugh was the only thing that would block out Fred's screams. 

And this horrible, disgusting man, the man whom he called "Master," had spoke of killing her, his joy, his life line, the only thing he'd done in his life that hadn't destroyed everything, that hadn't caused the pain and suffering of everyone who had ever loved him… 

But however horrible and disgusting, his Master _could _destroy her. Percy kissed his daughter's hand and let it go, then turned to face the evil.

"W-will you join me in the Great Room?" He choked.

"It seems wrong to me," Voldemort said minutes later as Percy poured him a drink, "That your entire family is probably half starving in some stink hole, all squished together in their tiny little hiding hut, and here you sit, in your enormous house, at you full sized bar, serving expensive wine to the very person from which they hide." 

Percy said nothing (_he is right)._

"It is also very sad," Voldemort continued, "that with all this luxury, you cannot even keep your wife at home. Do you really think she went to a girlfriend's house? Do you really believe that she's painting her toenails and curling her hair, having a slumber party with other girls, perhaps chatting about what a great husband she has?" 

Without taking a sip, Percy dumped the wine from his glass; let the glass drop and shatter in the sink. _(I can stand no more) _"Why do you taunt me? You never stop, not ever. I _know _where she is. She's off cheating on me and doesn't bother to make excuses. I don't care. Let her." 

"Really," Voldemort agreed, "How can you blame her? If I had a perspiring bag of exposed nerves for a husband, I would certainly resort to escapism too." 

"Did you come here with a purpose?" Percy was surprised at the threatening edge to his voice as the words tumbled out, "All I asked is that you do not visit me at home or go anywhere near my daughter, and yet it seems without reason you interrupt me as I put her to bed. I have signed all of your papers, I have been your loyal servant, I remind you everyday of my ceaseless gratitude, and yet you do nothing but belittle and abuse-" 

"Ah ha!" Voldemort guffawed, "Here he comes! The old Percy surfaces. The Percy that is tiresome to the brain and trying on the ears. I only tell you the truth, Percy. You were a miserable person before and you are a miserable person now, but obedience works better for you. It is better the less you speak. I remember how you used to be… don't worry about turning out worse, my boy. You never had that Weasley glow to your eyes. Your nose was always too high in the air for your smile to be pleasant. At least now people can love you in the way they love an ugly dog, it's fur matted with mud, whining at their doorstep for scraps. Yes, see, that devastated look you've got on your face right now- much better than that This-Is-the-Last-Straw expression you _were_ wearing. Ha! You look like a kicked puppy. Much more lovable." 

Percy hung his head, hearing his teeth grit in despair. 

"I know what you're thinking," said his Master, raising his voice to a mock, "_At least my lovely and perfect daughter loves me. _Well what about when she gets older, Percy? Right now she is blessed with the sweet ignorance of infancy. She loves you because without you she'd starve. But trust me, when she grows older she will see you like the rest of the world sees you; a trembling, cowardly shell of a man, and she'll be ashamed. Ashamed that she was spawned from you, ashamed of all the evil things you've done in the name of Lord Voldemort, ashamed that her mummy never comes home…" 

(_don't you fucking cry damn it percy you're a grown man don't you fucking cry) _

The tears spilled over his eyelashes and he shook and ached with the will to keep from sobbing. 

"At least she'll have her uncle, won't she, Percy? As if the one wouldn't be enough. Twins are only a mutation, Percy. It's all been in vain. That one egg wasn't supposed to split into two. They are a freak accident. And you've given everything to bring them back." 

Percy's chest squeezed inward, as if Voldemort's putrid fist was closing in around it, crushing it. "You- you're- they- they- they were my brothers. You're wrong… they were two different people. They were both loved (_you cannot comprehend love). _The fact that they look the same meant nothing." 

Voldemort snorted.

"George liked me," Percy insisted in a cracking, childlike voice, "George would come into my room and talk to me sometimes-"

"-and you murdured him." 

"It was only supposed-"

"-I know, Percy," said Voldemort impatiently, "it was only supposed to make their mouths sticky and blubber blubber blubber. A lie, Percy, a complete and utter lie. You were jealous of them. You always were. Poor thing. Stuck right in the middle, between the smart, delicate, handsome Bill, strong, clever, brave Charlie, and the delightful, amusing, impossible-not-to-love twins. I can imagine how your family must have cooed and fawned over them. I bet at the needy age of two you were pushed aside to make room from them. Perhaps they even shared a room with you. And when you grew older it must have been difficult to be noticed, what with the Head Boy and the Quidditch star. I bet you suffered headaches and bruises from running into things constantly before anyone noticed that you had bad vision. I bet to this day you still ask yourself why it's only you, out of a family of nine, that has to wear glasses. Your father didn't wear them until he'd grown old, did he Percy? But even with the headaches you studied hard and worked yourself to exhaustion to be as smart as Bill and as clever as Charlie but you couldn't ever figure out how to be fun, could you, Percy? You had nothing on the twins. They carried laughter and joy wherever they went, something you couldn't even begin to compete with. Not after you'd worked so hard to point out the faults of your siblings. Not after you'd prided yourself in rule-following and law-abiding and making that, as a last resort, your special talent. The one thing that set you apart from your siblings. And you foolishly thought that was good, didn't you Percy? You thought it was a good thing, when really you were just an annoying, self-righteous, tattling, generally unpleasant, un-fun person to be around. And from deep within you your jealousy festered and festered, and your holiness made you lonelier and lonelier, and you looked at your fun- loving twin brothers, and the light they brought to other's eyes, and how much _their_ company was enjoyed, and how _they _had been born with a built-in best friend and confidant, and you _hated _them for it. You _wanted _them dead, Percy. Admit that to yourself, admit that in your core there is evil, enough evil to murder your brothers, and you will be set free from your conscience forever. You wanted them to suffer as you did. You wanted them to die, Percy, admit it. You wanted both of them to die." 

Percy was frozen with sorrow. His mouth worked, the muscles in his face convulsing. He stared shamefully down into the sink. His Master had described his life perfectly. Feelings he's never shared with anyone had just been rattled off to him, reducing all of that hidden pain to a petty unimportance. His life had been nothing but predictable, miserable, useless experience. For the hundred-thousandth time, suicide crept into Percy's mind (_it would be a public service_). But the chubby face and round eyes of his daughter suddenly came into his head and blocked those thoughts from view. 

Voldemort was wrong about one thing. Percy, though perhaps he'd been a little critical of them, had loved Fred and George. They had not failed to shed their light on him, as well, though he only allowed himself to laugh inwardly. He had not put the black powder in the cauldron to murder his brothers. He knew now that he'd done it for attention, acceptance, and admittedly, a little harmless revenge. 

__

"I loved Fred and George, no matter what they thought of me." 

__

On Voldemort's stolen face was a crooked, sly grin. "You didn't love them, Percy. Just another guilt. Trust me. You were the constant butt of their jokes and you wished them harm ever since they were old enough to talk." 

"It's not true! It's not! Why would I join the likes of you if it weren't to bring him back?" An unfamiliar emotion was wheedling its way all through Percy's body. Anger. "Master, just _tell me_, why did you come here and what do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" 

"You are in a seat of incredible power," Voldemort said calmly, "I want you to stop wallowing in your guilt and fulfill your promise as a Death Eater. I have held up my end of the bargain. Fred has a George. George has a Fred. Now do _your _part. It is time, Percy. By the end of the month my Dementors will be restored to Azkaban, and your fellow Death Eaters will be released. Lucias and Draco Malfoy. The Goyles, the Crabbes, the Flints, all of them. And they will show all of my pathetic new followers what it truly means to be _my _servant. And you, my boy, my Minister of Magic, will publicly announce your replacement… me." 

Percy glared at him. "You never mentioned any of this. That was not part of the deal. You only said I must be a Death Eater. I have no other obligation." 

"Doing what I say _is _the obligation of a Death Eater," Voldemort said viciously, "And I don't want to hear, 'and what if I don't,' because I've already told you what I will do." 

_(you stupid stupid bastard how could you get yourself into this how could you believe it you deserve what you get… maybe you did want them dead… did you want them dead?) _

"Show me my brothers. Where are they?" Percy demanded.

Voldemort lost his temper. He stood, sending the bar stool flying backwards, drew his wand, and pointed it at Percy's nose. "I do not like your tone. _Crucio!" _

Percy writhed on the floor. The pain was there, excruciating, but bearable; unimportant. After all, it was only his pain (_deserved). _He had certainly asked for it, mouthing off to his Master.

His Master. He'd foolishly forgotten what those words meant. (_I am forever a slave)._ The pain ended and he feebly attempted to pull himself from the ground. He could not.

"Feeling better?" Voldemort snarled, leaning over the bar. 

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry." 

"Yes, Minister, you certainly are. Get off the floor and come to the fireplace. I'll show you something." 

Terribly weak, Percy crawled from around the bar and across the room. 

"I SAID _GET OFF THE FLOOR!" _Voldemort roared. 

Percy used the coffee table to drag himself up, his joints shrieking. 

"You are worthless, Percy." 

"I am worthless, Master." 

"You are lucky I even agreed to give your brother a copy of his twin back." 

"I am lucky you agreed- what do you mean, Master, a copy?" 

"Do you not listen? Did I not tell you the other night that I would only restore George to his full self for a price?" His Master's wand was poised again. Percy didn't know if his body could handle another dose of the curse. 

"I was awoken from a dead sleep, Master." 

"I'll remind you in due time. Right now, open your eyes and look into the fire. Wipe the smudges off of your glasses. I want you to see this clearly." 

Percy (_like an obedient slave)_ polished his glasses. Even doing this simple operation took all of the energy from his elbows and shoulders. His legs were begging him to sit. 

"Now look." 

Percy looked, and gasped. It was George. He knew it was George. Sleeping (_dead?)_, no, just sleeping, on the sofa in the parlor of his old home, the Burrow. He had to be just sleeping, because Fred was sitting near him, running his hands through George's hair, as if George was still a little boy. They didn't look alike anymore. Fred was much thinner, and his hair was cut very short. His eyes looked very weary and old. But George, George was sleeping peacefully, youthfully, innocently, as if he had not a worry in the world. Percy was surprised at how Wendy was turning out to look like the twins and their mother (_better them than me)._

Percy felt very ill. Very, very ill. With a soft moan he sank onto the coffee table. A pain far worse than the curse he'd just endured engulfed him. 

It wasn't going away. Here he was, looking at Fred and George, alive, together, yet the guilt was _sharp,_ and stronger than ever before. 

"I'm sorry, Fred," he cried, "I'm sorry, George. I just- I just wanted…" 

"Oh stop it," said Voldemort irritably, "You make me sick. What on earth is wrong now? You won't even have to sell out your family. I've… someone else… to do that for me now. All you have to do is sign a paper in a few weeks time, and step down and let me take over. Then you may go and do whatever you like. You may even go back to the Burrow and beg and whine and cry for George to forgive you for the seven years you robbed of his life. But I recommend you take your daughter and run and hide."

_(because I will have served my purpose. All this… and I'll die anyway… why did I do it, Wendy? How could I?) _

"I don't believe you can do it," Percy moaned (_why do I persist? He'll kill me right now). _"I was a fool. I know as well as you that people can't come back from the dead." 

Voldemort stared at him coldly, clearly annoyed. Not to the point of anger, or any kind of outburst, no, just heartlessly irritated, in the way that a person in traffic might honk at an old woman laboring across the street. "You are really pushing it tonight, Percy. I don't know what has gotten into you, but clearly you're asking to be punished."

Percy saw his Master wave his wand before sinking into a dense cloud of fog. Almost as quickly as it blindingly thickened, it thinned out again, and he became aware that he was standing near a large rack of severed thumbs. He nearly screamed, but realized they were only fake, made of plastic and acrylic paint. He sighed with relief, but as he looked away, really did scream. 

He could see himself in the next room, young and pale, in a cot on the floor, Charlie on one side, scratching his belly and yawning, and Bill, muttering in his sleep as he often did.

"It looks a little funny. I don't think we did it right." 

"Nah. It looks just fine to me. Maybe a little darker than our last batch but-" 

Percy spun around. "_NO_!" 

Fred and George were standing by their big cauldron in their blue pajama bottoms, identical save for the letters on their shirts.

__

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Percy wailed. "DON'T TOUCH IT!" 

But the twins couldn't hear him. He ran to them, tried to shake them, but his arms and fingers went right through them. 

"LEAVE IT ALONE!" He cried in vain, "IT'S GOING TO KILL YOU!" 

"Give it a try, then, if you're so sure," said George. 

"My stomach's upset," Fred replied, shaking his head, "Remind me _never _to eat Muggle food ever again." 

"Nothing to do with the fact the Muggles made it, Freds," George told him lightly, "Chinese doesn't agree with you, it never has, and it never will. And I _did _remind you, you git, just like I remind you every single damn time you drag me there, ranting and raving about their bloody crab puffs-"

"-which are excellent. Really, you should try them."

"I _have, _Fred, and they make me sick, like I keep trying to remind you. I swear-" 

"-Georgie, shut up and test one," Fred interrupted, "you sound like bloody Percy." 

It was like a stab in the chest. Percy, helpless, tugged at his hair and sobbed, moaning quietly, though he knew it would be no use, "Don't eat it, George. It's going to kill you… don't eat it _please _don't eat it…"  
"I'm telling you, they don't look right." 

"Don't eat it, Georgie! Don't!" 

"Try it," Fred urged, "Worst it'll do is make us sick. Go on, then, pretend it's a crab puff." 

"_You wanted this, Percy_," boomed an amused voice from within his head. 

It was the voice of his Master. 

George chuckled and smiled at Fred, plucking one of the little round balls from the cauldron. "You reckon there's a market for crab puff flavored gumballs?" 

_"You asked for it, Percy. My gift to you, Minister. You'll get to witness the whole thing. I don't think your nightmares are enough." _

Percy pulled out his wand and desperately called out every spell he knew. The magic went right through his brothers and they didn't flinch. He turned away. He couldn't bear to watch. 

"I take it by the look on your face that they don't taste very good," he heard Fred say. 

"_This is want you wanted, Percy." _

"George?" The sound of Fred patting his brother on the back. His voice became worried. "Come on Georgie, it can't taste _that _bad." 

"STOP THIS!" Percy howled, "PLEASE!" 

"George are you alright?" Fred, trying to stay calm. "Spit it up, now, Georgie. You're scaring me." 

George, wheezing, coughing weakly. 

"_GEORGE! GEORGE WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?" _

Suddenly a baby wailed. The image of Fred and George and the cauldron shattered, like tiny bits of glass, and Percy was once again standing in his own Great Room. 

"Wendy," he whispered, charging up to her room, right past his Master. 

The laugh of Voldemort followed him like a rush of cold air, making his skin crawl, even as he took the stairs three at a time 

"See you soon, Minister Weasley," Voldemort called after him. He sounded disappointed. With a _pop!_ Percy knew he had gone. 

The moment Wendy saw him she stopped crying and smiled, stretching out her chubby little arms to hug him round the neck. In a shaky voice, he sang to her as if nothing had happened, but in his head the seed had been planted, and he wondered if his Master spoke the truth. 

__

Okay, don't make me spit and foam at the mouth. I paid for a month of support services (which I would recommend, it's nice), and I know since March the 24 that **51 **of you made it all the way to chapter 11. How may reviews have I gotten since then? One, perhaps two. Believe me, for those one or two I am grateful, but the rest you must have something to say! I know that asking for a review from all of you is too much to ask but COME ON! ::::whines pathetically::: You read all 26,000+ words of it, it can't be that bad!! Maybe it was just one person, going back and reading the last chapter 51 times, but I doubt it ( but if so, I'd be happy to send you an autographed photo of myself, striking my best Lockhart pose). Anyway, I know I didn't visit that chapter, not once, let alone 51 times, so please, for the love of god, SPEAK TO ME!!!! ::::takes a deep breath::: Okay, I've thrown my fit. Sorry. :-D I was having one of my moments. 


	13. On Worries and Werewolves

DISCLAIMER: Guess what? I'm J.K. Rowlings, everyone. I wrote Harry Potter. Yup, that's right, all four of them. Aren't I a wonderful author? Ah hahahahahaahahah! Only joking. Had you going for a second, didn't I? You really thought I was her, didn't you? You fools! I'm Rose Rovente, who owns NOT A DAMN THING! 

****

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ON WORRIES AND WEREWOLVES

The ward on the Burrow had been old, and for lack of a better word, senile. It should have immediately recognized Fred as a family member and given way, but didn't. And so after many failed spells Fred had reared back and kicked the door open the hard way. George had been impressed and laughed, and that laugh had made Fred terribly disoriented. The realization that he really was not ever going to see his brother again hit him very hard and very suddenly. He stumbled backward and landed hard on an overturned bucket, breathing only with great effort, turning this way and that with great confusion, feeling the world slip out from underneath him. 

"Fred?" said George in a thin voice. 

"Give me a sec, George." 

"What's the matter?" 

"I- I just- you wouldn't understand, just let me sit a second and then we'll go in, alright?"

"Okay," George agreed, somewhat reluctantly, then, "You're thirsty. You want water." 

Suddenly there was a wooden porch under Fred's shoes again, and his head no longer spun. He studied the George, who looked back at him worriedly. "George, how do you know 'thirsty' but you don't know 'hungry?'"

"You want some water," George informed him, as if that were any sort of answer. 

And yes, Fred's throat had been very dry. 

Then he was looking around at the place he'd grown up, wheezing from all the dust, feeling the delicate tickle of cobwebs on his arms. Their family portrait had not been removed from the wall in the parlor, and he and George, just fourteen years old, were smiling and waving at him. The George in the picture gave the Fred in the picture bunny ears, and they playfully shoved each other right off the frame, while their Mum gave them her infamous evil eye. Charlie drug them back into view by their shirt collars and smirked as they tried to escape his headlocks. 

There had been boxes of stuff everywhere, which three weeks later Fred was still struggling put away. It looked as if his family hadn't taken a thing with them. As if to taunt, George's things had been waiting in a dented hamper near the front door for him to trip over; fake wands and candy, a spent dung bomb entangled in sweater emblazoned with a huge "G." Fred smiled bitterly when the scene played out in his head: Charlie must have been packing George's things, and in some sort of mournful frustration had probably kicked the hamper and walked away from it forever. 

"Do these things belong to the boy you were talking to outside?" George had asked gently, as if nervous about disturbing his brother. 

"Yes," Fred had told him simply. He'd wanted to avoid explaining more than was necessary. 

"That's him in that picture," George observed, "Not me. But we look alike." 

"Yes you do." 

"Don't look sad. He didn't look sad. He looked glad to see you." 

Fred's breath caught in his throat. "You saw him?" 

"For just a second. When you laid down in the dirt, he was above you, like the things in the sky. Fogs."

"Clouds." 

"Clouds. Then he sort of… got windy." 

Got windy. Fred was now sitting in the parlor, sucking all the unpleasant flavor out of quill when he should have been using it to write out a grocery list. He admitted light-heartedly to himself that, going always from one extreme to another, after years of avoiding any deep thought, he was now seeming to get lost in it. It was alright, he supposed, because he could think of his twin now without overwhelming confusion and pain. But he still couldn't bring himself to go upstairs. To see he and George's room again, packed away as it might be… it would be too much. Just like visiting their joke shop would be far too much. 

"Oh no!"

Fred knew, and was already out of his chair and running toward the kitchen when his brother screamed. 

"George!" Fred cried. A pan of boiling noodles fell with a clang to the floor as a startled George jumped back from the stove. "For Merlin's sake!" 

"The water was going to bubble out the top, Fred," said George timidly. 

"You pick up a pot by its handle, George! You see this?" Fred demanded, pointing angrily at the burner. "I don't want you anywhere near it! You can't touch this part of the stove. It'll hurt you!" 

"I'm sorry." George's eyes grew moist and he hung his head. 

"Don't get upset. I'm sorry I yelled at you, alright? I just don't want you to burn yourself." Fred switched off the stove and used his wand to clean up the mess on the floor. "So much for our dinner. I'll conjure us some sandwiches. Don't know why I'm always trying to manually cook in the first place. Nothing but a big pain-" Fred stopped, realizing that not only was he upsetting George, but starting to sound like his mother. "-what kind of sandwich do you want, George? You want peanut butter and jelly? You liked the peanut butter and jelly." 

"Ham and Swiss." 

Fred looked queerly at his brother. He couldn't help but wonder how George did not know simple things like don't-put-your-hand-on-a red-hot-stove, but knew of food that Fred was quite sure he'd never fed him. It was also strange that that was Fred's favorite, and something his first George had hated. 

"Ham and Swiss it is," Fred said. 

"Fred," George said a minute later with his mouth full. 

"Swallow first. I don't want you to… choke…" something dark and dangerous crept up on Fred; something he couldn't explain. He pushed it away by charging forward with, "What were you saying?" 

George took a moment to chew. "You reckon I could do magic?" 

"Well," said Fred thoughtfully, removing his apron, "I don't see why not." He handed George his wand. "Give it a wave. See what it does." 

George swung it hilariously around like a violent marching band conductor, and sure enough, red and gold sparks flew out the end. 

"Weird," said Fred under his breath. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Say _lumos._" 

"_Lumos!_" 

The wand lit up. 

"Congratulations! You're a wizard." 

"I'm a wizard!" George exclaimed. 

******

For the next few weeks Charlie became rather moody and grew aggravated easily. He hovered over Bill, worried and nagged if he thought his brother looked too tired or made any expression but a smile, and the result was that they bickered and argued frequently.

Sean befriended Scott and Ian, becoming their shadow, following them whenever and wherever they would allow him. Remus was glad; he didn't know how much more of Sean's disapproval and taunting and cynicism he cared to put up with. 

Leaving was out of the question, because after three weeks, Charlie had still not successfully performed the _Avada Kedavra _curse. 

The next _Daily Prophet_ was finally distributed and a small article ran between a slew of advertisements; a biased (and not in Percy's favor) rumor that he had abandoned his position. Only his secretary was available for comment, saying, "he's been on holiday. He deserves a rest." Remus was sipping strong coffee and skimming through this article, Bill and Sean on his left and right, playing an uninspired game of chess. They were all listening to Charlie growl in frustration as he attempted to kill a cockroach.

His aim was good, at least. He'd finally managed to kill a flea as it hopped in and out of sight, sensing impending doom. The cockroach was obviously too big and too much yet for Charlie. He slammed down his wand. "I give up! I can't do it!" 

"Do you mind not shaking the table?" said one of Sean's chess pieces. 

"Shut up, you," Charlie spat. 

Remus patiently folded his paper and drew his brand new wand, which Junior Ollivander had been kind enough to replace free of charge. "Remember, Charlie, you can't just imagine the bug dead or dying. You've got to see it's little bug heart stopping. You've got to see his little bug brain shutting down. You've got to see the little bug life force draining out of-"

"I _know._ I see it, Remus, trust me, I see the goddamn bug dying-"

"Hell," Sean interjected, "It's _really _not that difficult." 

"It's your move," said Bill.

"One sec." Sean stood and cleared his throat, tapping the table with his own brand new wand. 

"Ho!" said Charlie, taking a step back, "I suppose the little boy is going to kill the bug dead right off without any-" 

"_Avada Kedavra!" _

For a moment the whole house glowed green, and the poor little cockroach scuttled no more back and forth across the table. Sean sat and Bill took his bishop. 

"-trouble." Charlie finished quietly. "How_ the fuck_ do you know that?" 

"Learned it in school. Check." 

"What school?" 

Sean looked at him crazy. "Hogwarts, of course." 

"Hog-?" 

"-try it again, Charlie," said Remus, "You got the flea. Hold your wand like-"

"Forget it. New course of action." Charlie sat hard at the table. 

"Calm down, Mr. Earthquake," whispered Bill's knight.

"Stop sulking, Charles." 

"Well _you _give it a try, _William, _and see what a fine mood _you're _in. Why don't we switch? How about _you _kill Voldemort and I'll…"

Bill's facial expressions were uncanny. Charlie trailed off as Bill gave him a look that clearly stated, so loud it could have echoed off the walls, that Charlie was to apologize and shut his mouth immediately. 

"I'm sorry," said Charlie humbly, shame reddening his cheeks. 

"Try the curse again," was all Bill said. _I'll be half dead by then and you know it,_ said his eyes.

"Check. I think it would be easier for him to curse something bigger, Remus. In class we started with locust, then frogs, pigeons, all the way up to pigs." 

"Perhaps," said Remus thoughtfully, "You're right." He pulled up his sleeves and transfigured the salt and pepper shakers into two medium sized mice. "Alright, Charlie, you've got to remember that this is an evil curse. You can't perform it and just _hope _that the mouse dies. You've got to _want _it dead. Pretend it's done something horrible to you. Feel the anger welling in your chest. Scream at it beforehand if you have to. Pretend it's Voldemort." 

Sean sniggered. 

"Quiet please, Sean. Try it. See it's _wretched _little heart stopping. See it die, wish for it to die, but don't worry, when you get it and practice it enough, it will be become second nature. Don't worry about having to collect those thoughts in your head when you're face to face with him. Concentrate. You are dispensing death."

"Yeah, or you could just kill the bloody thing." 

"Sean," said Remus edgily, "_Quiet_." 

Charlie sighed and rose again. "Alright you fucking mouse. I hate you and I hate this curse, and I want _desperately _for you to die! _Avada Kedavra!"_

The mouse squeaked and ran over the chess bored. Bill caught it in his elbow just as it was about to escape. 

"FUCK!" Charlie roared. He swung around swished his wand at the other mouse. "_Avada Kedavra!" _Everyone recoiled, violent green invading their closed eyelids, Bill nearly falling backward in his chair. 

Charlie let out a whoop of triumph. "He's dead! The bastard mouse is dead… I feel bad now… poor little thing." 

"It was only a salt shaker, Charlie," Remus patted him on the shoulder.

"Well done, Charlie." 

"Checkmate." said Sean.

"Blast," Bill muttered, "Well I'm going to have a nap." 

"We've only been awake a couple of hours," said Charlie. 

Bill shrugged, got up and went into the bedroom. 

Remus took a sewing kit from the pocket of his robes and set to work threading a needle. After a try or two he withdrew his reading spectacles and poked some more at that damned evasive hole, one eye shut, tongue stuck out slightly from the corner of his mouth. 

Charlie changed the deceased mouse back into a salt container, now shattered, and dropped it in the garbage on his way to the icebox for a drink.

"Why do you darn your socks like a _Muggle_?" Sean asked Remus as he put away the chess pieces. "I know a mending spell, if you need one." 

Remus couldn't help but laugh; sew his sock and laugh, blinking in disbelief. "It's a tragedy, surely! I can _kill _people magically, but never learnt to fix my socks." 

"I hope you're being sarcastic." 

Remus threw his head back in silent laughter. "I just like to keep busy, Sean. Gives me something to do." 

"Remus, can we talk?" Charlie said out of nowhere, his beer halfway to his mouth. He wasn't looking at Sean or Remus, but at the closed door the Bill had just disappeared behind. His expression was dark and thoughtful.

The smile fell from Sean's face. He counted in his head: _three…two… one…_

"Sean, why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get a cauldron cake." Remus said, right on cue. He set his darning aside. "Here's a Sickle." 

Sean gave him a dirty look, which of course Remus completely ignored. He also foiled Sean's plan to listen outside the door by saying, "and why don't you bring Charlie and I one as well." 

When he was gone, Charlie said, blinking back tears, "I'm going to fuck this up. I know I am." 

"You can't think like that." 

"I just keep thinking about how my mother would feel. If I fuck this up, then three of her sons are _dead_, all in one day. And the more my brother deteriorates, the more nervous I get. And I just keep thinking why the hell is this all up to me…"

"I'm sure we're all frightened." said Remus evenly. 

"And then I think, god, at least I'm not a werewolf," Charlie blurted, visibly shocked at himself but unable to stop the flow of words, "If I was a werewolf, I would have killed myself long ago. You're strong. I want to apologize for my ignorance. You're okay, Remus. Jesus, I'm sorry I'm acting like such a git…" 

Remus smiled gently. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you? I'll fix you something. Knock you out for a good twelve hours. You'll feel much better." 

"I'm not tired." Charlie insisted, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I don't want to sleep. Thank you for being so patient, Remus. I know you don't have to help us, and I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere but here. I- I hope you don't mind me saying this but… if it weren't for the thought that… you know, at least I can try and do something about my problems- I mean… unlike you… if it weren't for that I think I would be completely insane by now." 

They were silent for a moment, then Remus said, "Do you want to see something, Charlie? I want to show you something." 

Charlie, pink with embarrassment, nodded and continued to wipe his face. His eyes opened wide when Remus lifted his shirt, revealing four enormous purple scars, gashes that crept and twisted grotesquely from under the werewolf's left arm to the middle of his chest. 

"Jesus!" 

Remus nodded. "I tried to tear my heart out. My eighteenth birthday. Angsty little thing, I was. So you see? I'm not so brave." 

"You did that when…?" 

"Of course. _These _hands couldn't do this." Remus ran four fingers along the scars, almost tenderly, as if he had done it many times before. "It's alright to be glad you aren't like me. I'm glad you're thankful that you've got the power to do something, even if it might not work." 

"How old were you when you were bitten?" Charlie asked cautiously. 

"Five." 

"And you never tried to hurt yourself before then?" 

"I did hurt myself, many times." Charlie saw Remus shudder a little, "But we don't scar. Not unless we're in human form, or at that place between human and… not. Had it been earlier in the night, I would have died. For better or worse, and I admit I used to wonder that quite often, I did it just as the sun was rising, and through all my body's confusion, I lived." 

"What about the bite? I'm sorry, am I being rude?" 

"Oh no," Remus assured him, "Do you want to see it? I keep it enchanted because it's so visible - here-" Remus ran his hand over his neck and the top of his shoulder and muttered something. When the hand came away, there were six perfectly round holes, tapering off as they sunk deeper into his flesh, glowing a silvery-gray. These holes, following the shape of a half moon, were each deep and wide enough to put one's finger in, all the way up to the first joint. They were strangely beautiful, with a shimmering quality, yet hideous at the same time. 

Charlie realized he was holding his breath. "That's amazing. I had no idea a bite left perfect teeth marks like that." 

"They aren't all like this. This scar comes from the werewolf being killed with his teeth still in me."

"He died with his _teeth _still _in _you?" 

"My father got him just in time," Remus said, touching the marks, "He just sort of fell away, turned back into himself. He was very young- not to me then, of course- but thinking back on it, he couldn't have been more than sixteen. Pity his parents didn't lock him up."

"Wow." 

"I've been meaning to tell you, Charlie," Remus continued, fingertips still grazing the holes, "I'm going to go home for a couple of days. My housemate must be wondering what became of me. While I'm gone I want you to murder every household item you can spare. Practice practice practice. And if you would, I would like you to keep an eye on the boy. I'll be back to fetch him for the full moon." 

"Certainly," Charlie agreed. 

Just then Sean burst in the room and slammed the door behind him. He was out of breath from jogging up all the stairs, and brought with him the scent of cooking food. He gazed at Remus' bite, dumping the cauldron cakes on the table. "Is that The Scar?" 

Remus nodded, pulling his shirt back over himself. 

"No fair. Yours is almost pretty. Look at mine." Sean pulled up his sweater. There was a sizable chunk missing out of the side of his stomach, with the same silvery, shimmering glow. 

"Ouch." Charlie winced. "He damn near ate you, didn't he?" 

"She sure tried, that foul little bitch."


	14. Yawning and Stretching

DISCLAIMER: Once again, in case any of you just now crawled out from underneath a very heavy rock, or perhaps were studying polar bears in the northernmost poles, I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER!! I AM NOT JK Rowlings, and god help us all if I was, because knowing me Harry probably would have died in the first book and I never would have sold it, and millions upon millions of people everywhere would wander the earth like a lost twin, wondering what is missing from their lives. Oh, the horror. 

****

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

YAWNING AND STRETCHING

One's own death can be an easy thing to push to the back of the mind. It doesn't need to be forced; it goes quietly, like a humiliated child. The mind can be easily fooled when it comes to matters of death. It is eager to believe anything its owner tells it. It will believe the lies it tells itself, and ignore the whisperings of the body. Like a subliminal message, though neither seen nor hear or acknowledged, the thought is there, humming always in the background: _I am going to die, I am **not **going to die, I am doing to die, I can't really be…_

Bill and Charlie were laying on their backs in a clearing behind Zeta later that evening, their heads resting in the palms of their hands. It was a neglected Quidditch field, so neglected that one wouldn't know what it was, except three hoops jutted unnaturally out of the growth at both ends. Grass had broken through imported sand, soft and green. Here and there a tree had grown.

Bill looked up at the winking stars and the nearly full moon, wreathed by the shadowed leaves of two trees. It reminded him of the backyard of the Burrow. Bill remembered the chilly evenings they would spend near the pond, a two-year-old Percy nuzzled into his side, Charlie's prepubescent voice making up stories about monsters in the forest, waiting for a gnome to wander stupidly over his chest. When a poor, idiotic thing did, Charlie would leap up and in one graceful movement send it soaring over the hedge. Then Percy would giggle and Bill would pat his head. Percy _had _been a sweet little baby; perhaps a bit less goofy and imaginative than your average child, but a sweetheart all the same. And Bill heard his mother on the breeze, saw her, as big as a cow with the twins, bellowing from the back door that it was Percy's bedtime. 

Memories of childhood fought bravely, but the fear of death was quietly relentless. Bill had never felt so in tune with his body. Inside he could feel his heart and lungs and brain, yawning, stretching, fluffing pillows of morality, preparing for an eternal nap. Though he no longer felt the heaviness of his curse, he felt the weight of his ending life. It did not show outwardly, was not even the first thing on his mind, for something so vast and frightening was easy to tuck away and ignore. 

"It's nice out," Charlie said, "Did you know that the Gamma colony got funding for an indoor swimming pool? I expect my staff will be tearing down our door tomorrow, wondering why we don't have one. I'll have to tell them, keggers or swimming pools. I know which one they'll choose," and then laughed uncomfortably.

Bill wasn't going to answer. He knew it was Charlie-speak for _Bill, you're awfully quiet… are you still breathing? _and besides, he was enjoying the silence. The last week had been a blur to him, fighting with Charlie, fighting with his body. Right now was peaceful and nice, or so he told himself. 

Save for the hum of his fear. 

His words slipped out, like a smooth and unhurried hiccup, seeming not to form in his brain, but in the back of his throat, driven forward: "Charlie I want to see Fred before I go."

The silence was thick between them, but Death was hissing apathetically in Bill's ear. 

"You've got the rest of your life to see Fred," Charlie replied after a minute. It was a determined, yet desperate statement. Bill knew that beside him, Charlie was trembling with apprehension and fear, but would blame the warm night air before he would admit it. 

"I want to see him before. Just is case." Bill didn't know where the words were coming from. 

"Don't say that. If you say that it means you think I'll fuck up," Charlie's voice was hurt, "You think I won't be able to do it, don't you?" 

"I don't think that," Bill said only half convincingly. "If everything goes right…" He faltered, sighed, and tried again. "God damn it Charles. If doesn't work it won't be any fault of yours. I don't want you to worry about me. We're doing this for Percy, and Mum and Dad and Wendy and Fred and the whole rest of the goddamn world. I don't care if I live or die." 

A lie, of course, a lie.

"I'm fine," said Charlie in a strained voice. "I'm going to kill the cunt before he even knows what hit him, and you're going to be fine." 

"I know," Bill whispered. He sat and coughed wetly. His hand came up just in time and met a warm, thick liquid that sprayed into his palm. He tried to wipe it away on the grass before Charlie saw, but the moon was too bright. 

Charlie grabbed him by the wrist, pulling his palm close. "What is that?" 

Bill looked down, then back up at Charlie, pleading silently: _Let it be. _

"No…" his younger brother moaned, squeezing the wrist tightly, "Tell me that is something else, Bill." 

"You're hurting me, Charlie. It's blood. Let go." Bill said shamefully, feeling strangely like he had done something wrong. "I'm sorry." 

"Sorry for what?" asked Charlie, releasing him and lying back down. 

"Sorry for…" Bill didn't know what to say. Sorry for dying? That sounded so melodramatic, but he knew no other way to describe it. He felt like he was letting everyone down, getting sicker by the day, amidst all the planning and partying and drinking. The others- Charlie's roommates- at no personal risk, were excited for the fall of Voldemort and could speak of nothing else. Bill knew he was being silly, but he couldn't help but feel that perhaps if he were a little stronger, if he were a little more determined to live, he could fight the curse and win, and not disappoint those around him. Help Charlie in defeating Voldemort. "I don't know what for," he finished. He wiped the blood away. It stuck, dark and accusing, in the grass. 

"How long?" Charlie choked. "How long have you been coughing up blood?" 

"A few days." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"No reason to." 

Charlie was tense. His eyes stared dead and straight forward at the black sky. His nostrils flared. His chest rose and fell sharply, then steadied again. Bill wondered when this block of communication had lodged itself between them. It was as if neither felt they should burden each other, and so were burdened instead with silence. 

"We've got a little less than a week," Charlie said, turning to him, "Are you going to make it?"

Oh, what a question. Bill had no answer, from his brain or throat or elsewhere. He took the question and tucked it away in the little cranny his brain, next to his fear of death. 

"Let's go back inside," he said, and, with humiliation rising like a fist in his throat, "You've got to help me up." 

A tiny man named Fitzie, the same man that Remus had met weeks earlier at the gate, watched the brothers laboring back across the yard from the window-seat of his flat. It was only he and the teenaged werewolf, as he didn't count the unconscious, whiskey-logged bodies of Ian and Scott. He turned to Sean and shook his head. "Chuck's brother is in bad shape." 

"Yeah," Sean muttered, his face nor voice committal, "They've been hell to live with. Charlie and Bill fight constantly and Scott and Ian are always drunk." 

"We're all drunks," said Fitzie, his speech soft from Firewater, "All drunk on something, all trying to escape from something, all angry at something. All need to prove to ourselves that we can overcome something bigger than ourselves. That's why we tend to dragons. Bigger, angrier than we are, and when we subdue them, we consider it a job well done. And we think we reward ourselves for this 'job well done' with drink, when _really, _the drink, as well as the roar of the dragon, block out the pleas of our souls, crying out for something better." Fitzie raised his eyebrows, as if amazed with himself for such insight. He snorted, scoffing at his own musings, but his eyes were adrift, dreaming. He shrugged and took a swig of his drink. "Either that, or we do it cause it's easy. Round up pigs, toss 'em to the dragons, shovel their shit, change the hay, get drunk, do it all over again. Or hell, maybe we just like the dragons." 

"You know, the reason I came to see you tonight," said Sean, moving away from the window and throwing himself over the back of the sofa, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, "Was to escape Remus' endless reflective pycho-babble." 

"So?" 

"So I'm getting the same from you. Can we talk about something else?" 

Fitzie reared back, but recovered and smiled. "Well! Aren't we _lacking_ social skills. Had I anyone else to talk to, you'd be out on your smooth little ass, I want you to know that. What do you want to talk about?" 

"Alright, we can stay on subject," said Sean bitterly, "I miss my family. I want to go home, but that old were-hole won't let me. I'm sick of being stuck here, listening to Remus try to teach the stupid Death Curse to Charlie while his brother sleeps twenty hours a day and Scott's drunk laugh is so loud it hurts-" 

"Merlin's Beard, kid, shut up!" Fitzie protested, holding up his tiny hand. "They're taking care of you. I've talked to that Remus. He's a fine man. You're lucky he's taken you under his wing. Imagine what it must be like for them, planning what they're planning while the little ungrateful brat Sean sits back, rolls his eyes and scoffs at their efforts." 

Shock surely registered on Sean's face, but it drained quickly away. "I didn't ask to come here," he said stubbornly. "He dragged me." 

Fitzie turned back to the window, looking out into the night, shaking his head. "You're a spoiled brat, Sean. Bet you think you're a real bad ass, don't you? I should give you something to whine about. I know that Remus would never do it." 

"Ha! You? You're half my size." 

Fitzie roared with laughter. "I bet when it came down to it, you'd cry like a little girl who's gotten a lolly caught in her pigtails. Let me tell you a story. Imagine starting your first year at Hogwarts being perfectly portioned, but only three foot three inches tall." 

"You're not that short." 

"Not anymore," Fitzie said, "I'm five foot, thank you. But _goddamn _three feet I was, believe me. And bright red hair and a voice to match my body. Could have broken glass. And the funniest accent you've ever heard." 

"You sound like anyone else." 

"You think you've got problems! Ha! Let me tell you something, Sean. My father was a ornery, sour-tempered, goldless _leprechaun_!" 

"You're a leprechaun? You're much too big," said Sean skeptically. "And you don't sound very Irish." 

"Only half, Sean. Only half. My father loved me to death, until I was ten, when I had a growth spurt. On the day I was able to look down at him, he gave me the whooping of my life and sent me off to live with my mother without another word. And if that wasn't bad enough, my mother was a French-Canadian Squib who was living in New York." Fitzie laughed uproariously at his own misfortune. Sean didn't think it was funny at all. 

"And somehow I ended up a wizard. That woman beat me all over the city when I got my letter. Can you imagine? And she was a fuckin' enormous- I think I might be one fourth gorilla- and I lived there for a year before they sent me to Hogwarts, three foot tall, my high-pitched accent flattened and perverted by New York City, speaking half my words in French, two black eyes, and dressed in the ill-fitting old clothes of my father… Lord. Thank god for school robes and long periods between the trips home. My wife is an inch taller than I, and to this day I'm afraid that I'll grow again and be a divorcee." 

Fitzie laughed again. Sean reflected. Maybe he _was _rather lucky. He'd certainly never been hit in his life, not even by his older brothers, nor had he ever had to wear any of their old clothes. Upon his first day at Hogwarts his robes and books had been brand new. Yes, he was werewolf, which was definitely no fun, but he always had his Mum and Dad and his nurse there with him. At school, he transformed in big, private room in the hospital wing. Even so, Sean was not about to admit to Fitzie that yes, perhaps, he might be a spoiled little ingrate, and so instead he remained silent. 

"Yes, I think it would do you great good to have your ass kicked by a man my size." The half-leprechaun said in a vaguely challenging manner. 

Sean snorted. "You know I'm a werewolf, right?" 

Fitzie smiled evilly, looking him up and down. "Not right now, you aren't." 

"Well, if you want to get seriously hurt," Sean replied, "go ahead, little man. Try it." 

Fitzie finished his drink in one gulp and tossed the glass over his shoulder, where it shattered on the wall. He jumped to his little feet and rubbed his tiny hands together. In his smirk it was apparent that he meant business.

Sean ran. 

In the apartment down the hall, Remus met Charlie at the front door. Bill was limp and unconscious in his arms.

"You should have Apparated," Remus said. He took half of Bill from his panting brother they laid him on the sofa. 

"I never learned how," Charlie told him, "I mean, to take another person with me. I shouldn't have taken him outside, anyway." 

"Yes, you should have. He wanted to go." 

"He told me he wants see Fred." 

"Then I'll take him to see Fred when I leave," said Remus, holding the scrap of robe to Bill's cough. A great black clot came up, and Bill nearly choked on it. Like a professional, Remus gently scraped it from his tongue with the cloth and disposed of it. 

Charlie turned away and nearly retched. "Oh god. Voldemort is a filthy fucking liar. He's going to be dead long before Friday, isn't he?" 

"Absolutely not." Remus dabbed at Bill's face with a clean rag. "In order for him to want to spill, he's got to suffer. He's suffering." 

A scream rang out from down the hall, followed by maniacal laughter and a loud _thud_. Remus perked his ears. "That sounded like Sean." 

Charlie shrugged. "Just a party. I wouldn't worry about it. Remus… What if Bill does tell? About our plans, and Harry." 

Remus straightened up and narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said he didn't know anything." 

"Not that I know of. Not that he's told me. But honestly, I'm starting to worry. He's got a weak spot now. He could be tempted-" 

"_Stop_."

"Stop what? I don't want to believe it either, Remus. He's my only big brother, for Merlin's sake. I want to trust him, but we have to think about these-" 

"I SAID STOP!" Remus went to him, stopping very close to his face. He stared at Charlie with frightening intensity, jabbing a finger in Charlie's chest. Charlie had never seen such a dead seriousness in someone's eyes before. It scared him and he backed away. Remus followed, poking him harder. "_Don't_." He said heatedly, "Don't you start questioning what your brother says. Once we start to mistrust each other, all is lost."

"But Percy-" 

"This is not Percy! This is Bill. If you can't trust him then you sure as hell can't trust me! So why are you telling me this?" Remus seemed startled by his own sudden viciousness. He stepped away, turned his back to Charlie, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. The moon is pulling." 

"I understand." 

Remus turned to face him again, his face flushed. "Still, the fact that you think that your brother would give away all of us to save his own life infuriates and frightens me. Do you remember the scars I showed you earlier? The gashes?" 

"Of course." 

"I told my friends I wanted to be alone. I told them it was because I was tired and didn't want to run around all night, but really it was because I wanted to brood over the fact that the full moon fell on my birthday. Voldemort came to me that night, minutes before I was about to transform. He brought me cake dripping with red frosting, the color of blood, sang me Happy Birthday and laughed at my pain. Sang me Happy Birthday! He told me it would never happen again if I would just agree to have the mark on my arm. Those gashes, Charlie, were my self administered punishment, because I regretted not taking him up on his offer. Bill is being _very brave_, Charlie. He could have told weeks ago. Do _not _doubt him."

Charlie was rightly ashamed, but didn't know what to do but change the subject. He could not meet Remus' piercing gaze when he said quietly, nearly under his breath, "I think that Fred probably went home. To the Burrow." 

"I'll take Bill there on my way home." 

"I would go myself, but-"

"-no, no… you need to stay here. You have to master the Curse." Remus smiled just slightly, "And concentrate on not getting this place shut down." 

Charlie managed a crooked smile. He sat on the sofa, took Bill's head into his lap, and slept. 

__

Some people were wondering how Sean knows the Death Curse. Waaaaaaay back in chapter 4, I established that in my little universe, because of the desperate state of the world, Dumbledore has given in and is offering Auror classes at Hogwarts, which include learning the Unforgivable Curses. Like I told Steph, I forget that not everyone knows this story like the back of their hand as I do. My apologies. Also, you should review. I said it nice and calmly :D But please, I don't want to hear anything like "funny u called this chap yawning n stretching, because that's just what it had me doing." Ha haahahaha… 


	15. Oh Father

DISCLAIMER:I know ya'll are just dying to, but please don't send me any money for this fic. It is not mine to accept. I am sorry. J 

****

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

OH FATHER

He didn't like the man who'd come.

He'd arrived with this older man who had had a funny smell to him; smelled like the forest and raw meat, the kind Fred had beaten with a mallet and cooked on the hot swirl that George wasn't allowed to touch. Fred had introduced them as Our Brother Bill and Our Friend Mr. Lupin (who left right away). 

Bill had looked at George as if he were some kind of bad thing, like the smell of Fred's dirty socks. 

And Bill's face was the wrong color. It was shiny, gray, and purple around the eyes. When he coughed he held a rag to his face as if he were afraid his insides might come out. 

It _sounded_ like his insides might come out, and George didn't like that either. 

Fred pointed him out, on the family portrait in the parlor, this man who was suppose to be Our Brother Bill. But it didn't look very much like the same person except the long red hair. 

Bill and Fred hugged, cried, laughed and talked all the day about things the George didn't understand, no matter how carefully he listened. What George liked the least was that Fred didn't pay him any attention after this man came. The man was so sick that George guessed he needed _all_ of it. 

In the evening he tried to show Fred a drawing he'd made. He thought maybe Fred would show it to Bill and Bill would like it and stop looking at him so strangely. But Fred had told him to keep quiet, Our Brother Bill is talking, and he would have a look in a moment. 

But Fred hadn't looked, and it had already been _lots_ of moments. George didn't know how long a moment was, but it couldn't be _this _long. The brother Bill talked so slow and quiet it made George sleepy. He grew tired of waiting, of "keeping himself busy" as Fred had instructed him, and wandered into the back yard where the sky was darkening. 

He had a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never felt before- it was sort of like what it felt like to be sad, only sadder than that, and it burned. His chest felt so tight he couldn't breathe very well. His eyes watered, like he was crying, but really he wanted to hit something, anything, until it either hit him back or screamed because it felt just as bad as he did. 

Clutching his drawing to his chest, he sat under the Weeping Willow to wait for the feeling to go away, but it only seemed to get worse. It was chilly and the grass was wet and soaking through his trousers. He wished badly that Fred would come out and look for him. 

Ah, there he was. 

Merely the sight of the dark figure coming round the house and across the lawn made George feel better. 

Silly Fred. Why hadn't he just used the back door? 

"Would you like to see it now?" George called. "I worked on it a long time, Fred. A long, long time." 

The figure quickened, raising a finger to its lips.

"Oh! Sorry," George whispered. 

"Be quiet, my child." 

"Who are you?" He could see no face under the cloak. 

"I've been waiting for you all day, George."

"How do you know my name?" 

The glisten of a smiling mouth shown from within the blackness of the cloak. He brought his hood back just slightly so that George could see him; he was dark-haired, had nice teeth. "I'm your father." 

These words had little meaning to George. 

"Oh," he said, "Another visitor for Fred." 

"No, my child," The dark figure told him, "I have come to see _you_." 

"Me?" 

"Of course, George dear. After all, _Fred _is not my son. Just you." 

"Nice to meet you, father," George said politely. 

The man grumbled a noise that George supposed was a laugh.

"You don't look like my father from the picture." 

The dark figure crouched stiffly and sat beside him. "_I_ made you. Not him." 

"Why?" 

"Why what, my child?" 

"Why did you make me?" 

"For Fred." 

George didn't know what to say, so he said, "Thank you…" 

"But what, child?" 

"Sometimes I think he wants me to go away." 

"Maybe you _should_ go away, my boy. You could come away with me." 

The dark figure reached out and touched George's shoulder. It didn't feel right and his first impulse was to shrink away. The fingers were cold and unnaturally stiff. George didn't know the word for it, but he felt that this man, his father, really didn't have the feelings he was trying to show. 

The word was _fake, _he thought_. _And that was followed by a brand new thought…

"Fred is my brother," George told his dad, "We're twins. How can you be my father and not his?" 

"Can I see your drawing?" His father asked. 

George was still clutching it to his chest. He shook his head. 

"Come now, Georgie. Show your father the drawing. I'm sure it's very pretty." 

George reluctantly brought it away from himself, smoothing out the crinkles before handing it to the man. It was a drawing he did with markers. There were only three at the Burrow that weren't completely dried up, but luckily they were just the colors he needed: red, black, and yellow. 

The drawing was of three identical figures, all with wild crimson hair, holding hands and smiling under a giant, flaming sun.

"It's me and Fred and George," George explained proudly. "And we're all alive and happy." 

"No wonder Fred didn't want to look at it," said George's father, crumpling the paper in one fist. "It's a terrible picture." 

The feeling in George's chest seemed to get worse. It was like a burning lump had dropped lower, farther and heavier into his belly. Hollow, like the feeling that Fred told him was _hungry._ Only worse. 

"Don't cry, my child," said the father, tapping him with those cold fingers again, "I can teach you to draw so that it looks as real as a photograph." 

George sniffed, his lip quivering though he didn't want it to. "Would he like it then? Would he like _me?" _

"I can teach you many things, my son. Come with me." 

"Let me ask Fred if it's alright," George said, moving to stand. 

"Why?" was the sharp reply. His father sat him down, hard, by the shoulder. "_I _am your father. You needn't ask him anything." 

George said in small voice, "You never answered my question." 

"I can be your father and not his because you are not his twin. Fred only says that to make you feel better." He was straining to be kind, but George knew that he was getting angry… _frustrated_, because he'd heard that tone from Fred many times over the last month. "He tells you that because his _real_ brother is dead."

"But he says I'm his real brother, too." 

The Father snorted that unpleasant laughter again. "You're certainly difficult like him. I made you, my boy. Come with me and I _promise_ you'll never be ignored or unwanted again." 

"Really?" 

The Father, it seemed, could no longer hide his exasperation. "Yes, yes, of course. Now_ come along_." 

_Don't listen to him. _

George pricked his ears. "Did you hear that?" 

"Hear what?" His father's eyes darted nervously around. 

_Go back to the house. _

"That!" George exclaimed, starting. 

"Come with me, Georgie. We'll draw pictures together. It'll be great fun." 

__

Let me in, George. I'll take care of everything. 

"I don't think I should," George said. 

"But your mother wants to meet you. Don't you want to meet your mother?" 

Mother? George liked the sound of that. He had spent a lot of time while Fred was busy, looking at the portrait that hung on the wall in the parlor. George knew, because he asked, that the plump woman was Fred's mother. Sometimes she looked mean, but other times she would hug all the children and kiss them on their foreheads. He would often secretly pretend that the George in the picture was him.

"The plump woman in the picture?" 

"Yes," his father assured him, "The plump woman in the picture." 

__

George don't…

"Is my mother nice? Will she kiss me on my forehead?" 

"Yes-yes she's lovely. Stunning. She bakes cookies. Let's go now, my son." His father stood and reached out to take his hand, but George stood on his own. 

He walked out of the garden with the man's icy arm around his shoulder. The worse-than-sad feeling he had was gone now, but was replaced by another, and George didn't know if it was any better…

__

Well, the site being down gave me lots of time to write… I'm now ahead of myself, so you can expect an update almost everyday instead of every month or so. J . 


	16. The Lengthy Goodbye

DISCLAIMER: Blah blah own nothing blah…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

****

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE LENGTHY GOODBYE

Remus stopped just as he was coming round the house, crossed his arms, and smiled.

Sirius, perhaps a year ago, thankfully, had given up on his midlife crisis and accepted his fate as a middle-aged man. He went fishing and grocery shopping. He polished and fine-tuned his motorbike, but hardly ever rode it. He even vacuumed when the full moon was near and Remus wasn't up to it.

But he was still, and would always be, Sirius. 

And at the moment Sirius was watering his prize tomatoes. Watering everything else was more like it; he spun around and danced without grace or rhythm, splashing water in a messy circle around him. He sung horrendously at the top of his lungs.

Remus waited until his housemate quieted and was bent down pulling a weed before coming closer. 

"I don't know how those poor tomatoes have survived," he said. 

"Moony old boy!" Sirius exclaimed, throwing down his trowel and shading his eyes from the sun, "How _was _your holiday? Werethe accommodations as luxurious as in the brochure?" 

"Adequate at best," Remus sniffed, "There was no heated swimming pool."

"Unacceptable!" said Sirius stuffily, "You made a scene I hope?" 

"Certainly. Got a free night in the Executive Suite." 

"Ah, you really should have invited me." Sirius groaned as he pushed off with his knees and stood. "It's been a bit dull around here."

"I see that." 

"You're looking well. For it being so close to the full moon." 

"Thank you. And so are you. Looks like you've gotten a tan. Out here serenading your tomatoes in your loneliness, were you?" 

"Shut up, you. Those are merely… private conversations… with my vegetables, and I'll thank you not to eavesdrop." Sirius wiped his face and they went to the house together. In the dimmer, less blinding light of the dining room, he gave Remus a once over. "What happened, Remus? I can tell by the mended state of your robes that you've been doing a lot of thinking." 

Remus did not beat around the bush. He told his friend everything, standing right there; about Fred, George and Voldemort, about Sean, and Bill's illness, and what they were planning. Sirius listened and did not move, his expression darkening by the second. 

"It's not your business," he said quietly when Remus had finished.

"Voldemort becoming more powerful is certainly my business." 

"It's not. He'd never bother us. He has no reason to. He knows we're impossible to tempt and do nothing to stand in his way."

"Do you remember the Weasleys?"

"_And _we're old and useless." 

"Do you?" 

"Of course I remember my son's best friend!" Sirius had long before dropped the "god" part when he spoke of Harry. "Moon, as far as I'm concerned, you're resting your snout under a falling axe, so you can save the goddamn inspirational speech because it's not going to do a damn bit of-"

Remus pressed on, "So you think I should do nothing, and let Charlie drag his brother across the continent and get killed." 

"Christ, Remus. Let's sit down and have some tea before we argue. I've made some exquisite apple pie, would you like some?" 

"You don't bake." 

"Well… I put a lot of effort into coming by it…got caught stealing it from the Muggle supermarket." 

"Sirius, honestly. You're nearly as gray as I am." 

"I am not!" Sirius kept speaking as he went around the kitchen, taking down plates and tea cups. "I told you, I've been _bored. _It was great fun. I put up a good fight the secretary guards-"

"Security." 

"Security. See there? How can you blame me for getting restless without you around to correct my speech?"

"Excellent point," said Remus insincerely, "Go on." 

"So the security guards drug me into their little office, kicking and screaming, one with my feet and the other with my arms. Locked me in their little room with the pie while they called the proper authorities, and I popped out. Bet _that _confused the hell out of them." 

Remus shook his head. "Should have let them take you to the Muggle prison. At least then you'd have gotten free food. I don't know how else you're going to feed yourself, now that you're a fugitive from the only shop nearby. " 

"Yes. That's why I'm glad you're back." Sirius brought a tray to the table, then went to the icebox and proudly withdrew his pilfered apple pie. He took a doily from the drawer and displayed it prettily in front of Remus. "I've only thought of my food situation recently. There's a shop north, but I'd probably lose half the groceries Apparating. I'd surely starve."

"Well now, Sirius, not necessarily," said Remus thoughtfully, "Use your blatant disregard for the law to your advantage. If you're going to shoplift I see no reason why you can't hop on your broom with a large knapsack to go shopping in broad daylight."

"Hmm…"

"Or god forbid you should harvest your precious tomatoes." 

Sirius smiled at his friend's chiding, slicing the pie while Remus poured the tea. 

"You know Moon, I turned into a dog on the full moon and stayed that way all night, just out of sheer habit." 

"I can't stay long. In fact I shouldn't even stay the night." 

"Lupin…" Sirius began, shaking head, "Damn you! I'm too young to be a lonely old man. If you get yourself killed I'm likely to end up bringing my tomatoes in to sing cribbage with me on Saturday nights." 

Remus chuckled. "Karaoke_._" 

"What?" 

"It's karaoke, not cribbage. Cribbage is somewhat of a board game played on a-"

"-whatever." Sirius waved it away, "I really think you should stay home." 

"I can't." 

Sirius moodily shoved some pie into his mouth.

Remus suppressed a smile. "Careful not to stab the back of your throat." 

"By the way, your roses are dead."

Despite himself, Remus' jaw fell open. "Pad!" 

"I'm sorry!" Sirius huffed defensively, "I tried. You shouldn't have enchanted them. They never liked me. The big one-" 

"Merlin II?" said Remus sadly. 

"Yes. He told me himself, 'you are not amusing and you can't sing worth a damn.'" 

"He didn't!" 

"He did. I think they died purely out of spite. Didn't like my jokes, either." 

"Probably not. They don't like be sung to! They only like classical literature and general philosophic prose!" 

Sirius shrugged. "You should have told me that." 

"Have you ever seen me sing to them? Never!" 

"You still should have reminded me." 

"I didn't think of it. It's hard to think when you're being escorted away in shackles."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Boo-hoo." 

For a moment they sat and sipped their tea, allowing the wave of irritation to float away on the breeze, as it always did, before Remus spoke again. "Even if I don't go in place of Bill, I have to fetch him from the Burrow, and I left the boy with Charlie." 

"So what?" 

"Come on now, Pad. I can't just leave them."

"Are you bringing the boy here?" 

"No. I don't want to explain you to him. I'll take him to that old barn I used to use." 

Sirius was quiet and furious as Remus finished his pie. He cleared the table of dishes, went to the sink and loudly banged them around in the suds, muttering to himself. 

"You know, Sirius, you're absolutely right," Remus said after a minute. 

Sirius turned, his face relieved and triumphant. He went back to the dishes and stood a little taller. "Finally you listen to reason, you old fool!" 

"About the stolen pie being exquisite. It really was very good." 

Sirius stopped the flow of water. "Lupin, you are an _insufferable _bastard." 

"I think you're the only person who's ever said that. Except perhaps Sean. I think you two would get along quite well. Emotionally, you're about that same age." 

"Go to hell." 

"I am going to help those boys, Pad," Remus said, "I am not afraid of Voldemort." 

"I know, you're a goddamn idiot. And to think, we always considered you the smart one. Just don't get your stupid self killed."

"I don't plan on it."

"I am officially angry with you until you come back alive." 

"Fine." 

"Wonderful. Now get out of my sight. I prefer the less aggravating company of my tomatoes." 

For a long while the only sound was the clinking of flatware and the rush of water, spattering loudly on the basin's metal bottom, but soon Sirius grew bored and bade them to wash themselves.

He turned and scowled at Remus. "Moon?" 

"Yes, Padfoot." 

"Can I go?" 

Remus hid a smile behind his teacup. "Absolutely not."


	17. Pins and Needles

DISCLAIMER: No money made. Not JK Rowlings. Everyone rent Gattaca right away. 

****

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PINS AND NEEDLES

Percy awoke and felt brand new. 

His Master had left him alone for days (_weeks_?) and the feeling seemed to be returning to his body, like a dead leg returning from numbness after so many motionless hours. Pins and needles and all!

He rolled over and put his arm on Penelope's side of the bed, empty as usual. There was a feeling welling within him- something familiar in its unfamiliarity- maybe Voldemort had decided to leave him alone. Maybe it wasn't too late to be a good husband to Penny and a good father to Wendy. 

Hope. 

Far-fetched, unlikely, dreamy, fabulous Hope. 

It was good… _god damn_ was it ever good to feel that. 

He leapt from his bed, grabbed his robe and was halfway down the hall before he realized he couldn't see. 

His Wendy would be a year old tomorrow, he thought as he went back for his glasses. Soon it would be Wendy's very first birthday. Percy had wondered many a time if his horrible choices would prevent this event from happening. But it hadn't! 

His hands did not tremble today. His stomach did not flop and pinch and his knees did not shake beneath him. 

Today he was solid. Today he was a man. Today, he felt alive. 

On his way to his favorite bathroom he caught sight of something and stopped. 

Penelope was asleep on the sofa in the Great Room, in a patch of sunlight that made her glowand she was so beautiful…laying there submerged in black curls, in those modest flowered panties she always wore, and one of his undershirts… 

Or the undershirt of the Other Man.

There was an empty wine bottle on the floor next to her, and two plates of half eaten seafood dishes, dotted with cigarette butts...

It was obvious that Penelope had brought her Other Man here, to her husband's house, to drink her husband's wine and food, to fuck this man on her husband's five-thousand-galleon sofa while her husband was upstairs, grinding his teeth in his sleep… and yet Percy stood there in awe of the creature he was married to. She rolled over on back, her hair falling away from her face, and was so lovely that it ached.

Then she was awake and looking at him, her eyes sad and wondering. 

He turned abruptly and ascended the way he came, shower forgotten.

Louisa, Wendy's nanny, shooed him out of the room after only a few minutes of getting in the way, and so alone in the hall he stood. He could hear Penny clattering around just a staircase away... it had been so long since they had existed in the same room together; the woman he had taken as his wife, a stranger now. Any other day he might have tip-toed away, creeping across the floorboards like a child out of bed, praying that she wouldn't hear or notice him. 

He took a deep breath. Not today. 

She was smoking a long, thin cigarette and sat cross-legged at the bar, still in her underpants, absently swirling a swizzle stick in a tumbler of dark liquid. Their eyes met in the mirror on the back wall, in one of those rare places where bottles of liquor did not obstruct the reflection. Percy knew he was twiddling his fingers, felt weak, and hated himself for it. And the way his wife gazed back, so regretfully, brought him no strength. 

Without a word he sat next to her, choking on the fumes of her smoke. 

She looked at him with those big, hooded eyes, face to face this time. Percy didn't know what else to do but look away. 

"Hello, Daddy." She said. 

This old endearment was a shock to him. 

"Good morning…" Percy whispered. 

"We made a baby a year ago," she pointed out solemnly.

"We did." 

"Congrats." 

"Penn-" 

"Does she look pretty in her blue dress?" 

"I don't know, I-" He paused to cough, "She's still having her bath. I wish you wouldn't smoke, Mum. At least not in the house." 

She snorted. "And I wish you wouldn't entertain that man in our home." 

Percy flinched. "He hasn't been here-" 

"I can still smell him. Everywhere in this room." 

"I told him not to come here. I told him-" 

"It's fine. Just pay the elf-driver when the crew comes to clean, Daddy." A tiny smile was hinting at the edges of her lips. "And you tell that monster that if he stinks up my house again, he'll have _me_ to deal with." 

"Oh god please don't joke…" 

That heavy sense of shame was looming overhead again- 

"He broke it off with me." 

"_What_?" 

"Last night."

(_did she really just tell me that?)_

Penny butted her cigarette and smiled sleepily, putting her hand to the side of Percy's face. "You cut your hair." 

At first Percy was startled and almost shrank away from the unfamiliar touch, but relaxed and melted into the warmth. "Louisa cut it for me." 

"It looks nice."

"Thank you." 

She took her hand back and turned away, lighting up again. "Are your parents coming for her birthday?" 

Percy said nothing. 

Penny shook her head. "You've still not told them. Why haven't you told them?" 

He stared down at his lap. 

"Your daughter is a year old and her grandparents don't even know she exists!" 

"Who is he, Penny?" Percy heard himself say. 

"Why? You don't care," she said, "You don't want to know who he is." 

"So you knew that I knew." 

"You have an eyelash." She lifted his glasses long enough to brush her thumb beneath their rims, showing him a tiny piece of red hair. "Make a wish." 

"I'm sorry," Percy said, "I've been-" 

"_Don't_!" was the sharp interruption, "Don't apologize. It's all you do, Percy. You're sorry, you're sorry, you're sorrier!" 

The eyelash was forgotten, unwished upon forever. 

"I am," Percy mumbled. 

He was sticking his toe in the swamps of Guilt, was testing the dank waters for comfort… 

Penny's hand was flat and hot and burning against his cheek. 

"You slapped me." he observed. Despite the blow, tears fell. "I love you." 

"You can't possibly," she spat, "You're too _goddamn sorry_ to love anything but being abused by _him._" 

"I _hate _him." 

Percy wheezed as he was answered with more smoke in his face. 

"You _love_ what he does to you!" Penny cried, "You _love_ being belittled and abused because you think you deserve it!" 

"I _do_ deserve it," said Percy firmly, "I… I _murdered_ my brother. He showed me… Fred sounded so scared…" 

Penny surprised him by slamming her fist on the table. Her cigarette exploded into tiny bursts of radiant powder and faded to bits of gray fleck, dulling the shiny oak surface of the bar. She looked at him with her teeth bared.

"If you'd said 'I love you' half as much as you've said you're sorry-'"she began, but now she was crying, too. 

"I love you," Percy said again. 

And she was taking him by the ears, pulling him toward her, kissing him roughly... 

It had been so long that Percy didn't know what do to with his lips; they fumbled awkwardly around with the fright of being jerked alive again. 

He awoke down there; the pins and needles were fiery and desperate. 

As quickly as she reeled him in she pushed him away. She didn't let go of Percy's ears, but held him there, inches from her own face, searching him, searching for an ounce of anything not trodden on and pathetic. 

"I'm not sorry for anything I've done." She said. 

"I _love_ you," he tried again. 

"I don't want you to love me! I want you to get angry and- and call me a whore and throw me out in the cold! I- I want you to hunt down Colin and string him up by his testicles!"

"That bastard."

Penny didn't seem surprised by her slip. Her expression softened. "No, I don't mean that. I want you to walk proud and spend two hours polishing your badges before work. I want _you_ to be _you_." 

"The editor of the Daily Prophet," Percy whispered. "That _fuck_." 

"No, he wasn't, Percy. He made me feel like I was enough. Like my wonderfulness and beauty alone would keep him from becoming the _manservant_ of an evil wizard." 

"Kiss me again," Percy whispered. 

She shook her head; a disgusted _no,_ and shoved him away, rising quickly. He saw her march away in her flowered panties, beautiful and proud, and her voice: "My family will be here tomorrow at noon. Wash your hair." 

And though his cheek stung and he ached in unmentionable places for the first time in many impotent months, he smiled. 

He smiled and blew his lovely wife Penny a kiss, knowing there were at least two people in the world that still loved him. 

__


	18. Regroup

CHAPTER TWENTY

REGROUP

__

Note from author: Sorry guys. It's been a long while since my last update, so you get no less than four long, long, long, probably too long chapters. Yippee. My only concern now is that no one will remember what's going on. Um… I don't have the talent JK has for recapping, so you're on your own. Good luck. Oh yeah, nobody sue me, and review. Thanks. 

Charlie had certainly been perfecting his Curse. Remus and Bill returned to Charlie's very early the next morning, Remus a bit hung-over, (Sirius insisted he stay and "celebrate," celebrate what, he didn't know) and Bill, stiff, weak, and feeling his first waves of pain. It was as if a dragon had broken loose and thundered merrily up to the top floor, perhaps to dance a jig in the front room. Everywhere- broken dishes, bent silverware, spilt over beer bottles. There was deep-fried, smoky smell, and a nil amount of light from the drawn windows shone eerily on a lingering cloud of the Death Curse. 

Sean, like an overripe and battered blueberry , sat on the sofa with an cold pack over one eye. 

"Remus? Is it you?" he said, smiling crookedly, as his lip was split and fat. 

"It is," Bill leaned heavily on Remus as they staggered to the sofa and sat. "Where's Charlie?" 

"Dragon feeding." 

"The eye's swollen shut, I see," Remus said. 

"Yes, sir," Sean said sheepishly, keeping his good eye on the book. 

Remus patted him on the shoulder and tried not to smile. 

A sweaty and panting Ian fell in the door, pale sticks of straw poking out of his hair. "Good Lord, are those dragons foul-tempered today!" he told them tiredly, removing his shoes and tossing them on the pile near the door. "Nobody fed those goddamn pigs for a week! Thin as fucking house cats, they were! Some of them were _dead_. Dragons like their prey alive. Bloody Christ, are they mad! Even

after we gave them a second helping." 

"Where's Charlie?" 

"The Black Shack." 

"The what?" 

"The burn room." 

Remus stiffened. "Is he… alright?" 

"Oh yes. He'll be nice and golden brown, though. Elsie -that horrid grumpy bitch, one of our Horntails- sick all over him. _All _over him_._"

"Gross," Sean offered, closing his book and standing so Bill could put his feet up. 

"Dragon puke is warm but not enough for serious injuries. Scott's down there hosing him off right now." 

Bill laughed a hoarse laugh.

There was a mighty pounding on the door. Fitzie barged in, holding a Fitzie-sized goblet. He looked as if he'd been doing some heavy brewing. His front was splattered with liquids of all colors, some of them flashing and dripping the wrong direction down his robes. What appeared to be the tail of a small lizard dangled from on of his sleeves. 

Sean cowered behind Remus. 

"Ah! Welcome back!" Fitzie slurred loudly. He winked at Sean. "How's it going, Kitten?" 

"Fine, thank you," said Sean contemptuously. 

"How's my Billy-boy and my rapturous Remus and my insatiable Ian?" 

"What, Fitz?" asked Ian. 

"What you mean 'what?' Darling," Fitzie called again to Sean, "What's he mean by 'what?'" 

"_What do you want_, Michael?" Ian repeated a little louder. "Aren't you on Ash Duty?" 

Fitzie looked hurt. "Rear Gate, not that it's any of your _goddamn _business. Got someone to watch it for me. I've brought Bill a little something." 

"No, thank you," Bill said. 

"Thank you, Fitzie," Remus agreed, "but he shouldn't drink alcohol." 

"It's not _booze_!" Fitzie said, looking ever more hurt. "Do you think I'm stupid? Is that what you think? Ask my Princess over there. Sean, on the contrary, I'm a clever one, aren't I?" 

"Clever," muttered Sean, "Why do you keep calling me girly names?" 

Fitzie smiled. "Silly question, Love. You're covered head to toe in my _weeeee _fist marks." 

"So?"

"So now you're his bitch." Ian explained. 

"I am not your…" Sean began, but the next sound was that of his jaw snapping shut. He retreated a little into the kitchen. 

"Nah," Fitzie disagreed, "I've too much regard for my women to use that ugly word. You're my Satisfying Morning Piss, Sean, but no comparison, mind you, to Darla, my Radiant Burst of Sunlight." Fitzie's eyes grew dreamy. 

"Wee fist marks, eh?" Sean blurted before he could stop himself, "That how you got her to marry you, is it?" He whimpered as Fitzie advanced on him. 

"Aaah!" Fitzie growled as he charged toward the boy, "Darla isn't a whining wad of unjustifiably complacent _shit. _You want some more lovin', do you, Darling?" 

"You're a fucking liar!" Ian burst forth suddenly, intercepting Fitzie with a hand that spanned his entire chest. "You're not Rear Gate. You had Slop Duty all last week, didn't you? That's why the pigs were starved!" 

Fitzie ignored him, eyes narrowing to fiery slits, burning into Sean. 

"I'm sorry," Sean muttered. 

"I'm sorry, _what?_" 

"I'm sorry, _sir,_" Sean mumbled, his swollen face twisted with hate. 

The little man was satisfied. He indignantly shook Ian off and headed in the other direction, to kneel on the floor beside Bill. 

"This is for you," he said quietly, looking very serious, "Don't be afraid to drink it- I'll tell you this so you'll understand. When a leprechaun loses his gold- and I'm not talking about that disappearing rubbish we give you people, I'm talking the _real _gold- what happens is not unlike the rage of a werewolf. I'm sure you know that when a werewolf has no Wolfsbane, and no human around to bite, it will take to gnawing on itself-" 

"WHAT?" Sean shrieked. 

Remus slapped his forehead. 

"Okay, so that's not true!" Fitzie said, shrugging it quickly away. "It was for the dramatics of the story! Don't flip out, my Jewel, it was only an exaggeration." 

Remus mouthed the words _Thank You_ to the little man.

Fitzie nodded quickly. "Anyway… everyone underestimates a leprechaun's magical powers. Cheerleading at Quidditch matches, that's all we're good for; our tempers our only personality trait. Maybe so. But that temper is detrimental to our health when we lose our gold, and so when one of us does, the others will scatter! Run for the hills as fast as your short little legs will carry you, because when a leprechaun becomes goldless, they seek blood. They want to hurt and destroy everyone and everything, and with no one else around, they hurt themselves. It's like they're possessed- my half brother Cillian, he's a full-blood , took his wife's head right off. Littlest man in Azkaban!" 

"Sam had you on Slop and you didn't do it, did you?" Ian persisted. 

"You talk to Charlie about that," Fitzie replied, "Four bloody years I've work in this shithole! Let someone newer feed the hogs! I told him! I'm too small to be lugging around great heaping barrels of slop, anyway." 

Ian looked murderous. "Ah! But you're big enough to knock the snot out of someone twice your size, aren't you?" 

Sean slumped, his pulpy face reddening. 

"Where was I?" Fitzie said to Bill, "What was I talking about?" 

"You were talking about violent leprechauns," Bill reminded him. 

"Those dragons could have died, you lazy bastard!" Ian roared. 

"Oh yes," Fitzie said, "Violent leprechauns. Because this horrible reaction to stolen gold, at the risk of extinction, we became excellent healers. How many of your knew that?" 

"_GET ON WITH IT!" _

"Ian!" Fitzie exclaimed mockingly, "People in the room are ill. You should have some respect." Ian shook, breathing hard through flared nostrils. He turned and left quickly, probably to explode in private. 

Fitzie pretended as if Ian had never been there. "And so Bill, I've gotten inexcusably drunk and made you this potion. It'll give you a bit of energy. Relieve any pain. For a while." 

Bill's eyes widened as he sipped. "It tastes good." 

"Of course it tastes good," Fitzie sniffed, crossing his arms. "And you can bring the goblet back to me where you're finished. Goodbye, all. Goodbye, my Sweet!" 

Blowing Sean a kiss, he pranced off. 

A while later all could here Charlie's footsteps far down the corridor. He aimed to take the building down with that walk. The front door nearly came off its hinges and there he stood, looking around at everyone as if for a victim. He was still drenched and wore only a towel around his waist, covered in head to toe with dark clusters of freckles. He marched immediately to the fridge, curling his lip at Bill. "I'm having a stiff drink, and then I'm going to be sick, _again, _and you've got nothing to say about it!" 

"Charles-" 

"_DON'T YOU 'CHARLES' ME_!" Charlie roared. "Try having a dragon spew _GALLONS _ of _half- digested pig guts_ all over _you!_" 

"Can no one else bother to clean up around here?" Scott bellowed directly at Sean, kicking someone's laundry off the end table. He disappeared into the pantry. 

"What the hell are _you _drinking then, grape juice?" Charlie snarled, seeing Bill's goblet. "Hypocrite." 

"Fitzie made it," Remus told him, "For his health." 

"Fitz?" Charlie said, the anger gone for a moment. "And you're actually drinking it?" 

"What is that suppose to mean?" Bill asked, taking another sip. 

"He's part leprechaun!" Charlie exclaimed, "And part Squib. I've known him for a long time, but I wouldn't trust _any _of the little buggers to hang my hat." 

"I agree. And you should never have a werewolf in your home," said Remus gently, "In case a full moon should suddenly appear." 

Bill snorted. "Who puts this rubbish in your head, Charlie? It's as if you were raised by bigots." 

Charlie was suddenly timid. "I'm… going to have a drink, Bill." 

"Are you asking my permission?" 

Charlie grabbed a few bottles and stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. 

"Hell," Bill muttered into the goblet. 

Within the hour Bill was amazed to find that not only was he feeling well enough to stand, he appetite returned with a painful, snarling vengeance. Charlie burst out of his bedroom every ten minutes or so to vomit rather dramatically in the toilet. 

"Good Lord," Sean cried around the third time Charlie was doing just that, "Let me out of here!" 

"I could heat the soup," said Remus to Bill. 

"Soup?" said Bill, "I could eat a steak." 

"You'll make yourself ill on steak," said Remus with a smile, waving at the cupboard, "And we've only one toilet." 

"Always babying," Sean grumbled. 

The cupboards, the icebox, and every drawer were barren of anything edible, save a tub of melted butter with bits of jam and crackers floating around in it, like crumbly driftwood in a greasy yellow sea. 

"Guess I'd better brave the Mess Hall." Remus said. 

"While you're doing that," said Bill, "I'm going to take Fitz his goblet back." 

Remus had gone and Bill set to reacquainting himself with the act of standing. Scott had knocked a few more things over and was grumbling inside the pantry about the shambled state of the house, all the while flinging empty boxes of food over his shoulder and onto an ever growing refuse pile that was the kitchen floor.

"What the hell is this?" he griped, and a box of cereal flew out, spewing little red and blue pebbles from between its cardboard flaps. "Who's been eating Muggle food? We could all drop dead in this bloody _trough _and no one would smell the difference! This flat isn't-" a stew pot hit the icebox- "big enough for the million and five of us. I swear to fucking-"

_Pop! _

Scott screamed over a rumbling crash from inside the pantry. Several boxes rolled out from behind the door in a great wave. There was a grotesque thud that sounded far too much like someone's head cracking on the ground. 

Sean fled to the front door, his hand poised and ready to twist the knob and run for his life.

"Shit… Charlie come here!" Bill, still considerably weak, approached the pantry, using what he could to support himself. "Scott? Are you alright?" 

There was no answer. 

"Scott?" 

Something rustled inside. Bill was almost there now, inch along the side of the wall. 

There was Fred, his face still puffy with sleep, eyes fierce with anger, wide and glassy, red and reminiscent of the Dark Lord himself. He hardly looked like Fred at all. 

"I knocked him over Apparating," Fred told his brother in a dead sort of way. "I think he fainted." 

"Freds!" Bill exclaimed, "You scared me to death." 

"Tell me what you did with him," Fred whispered.

"Did with whom?"

Fred seized Bill by his collar, shook him, and pushed him to the floor. "Tell me what you did with him!!" 

Bill was too startled to be angry. "With whom?" 

"WITH GEORGE!" 

Bill's face set into a hard stare. "George is dead." 

"YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!" Fred was purple with fury, his limbs shaking. Tears spilled down his cheeks very suddenly, and he sank down to be at eye level with Bill. "Why… why would you do it? I was almost happy. I was almost happy and you took him away." 

"I did absolutely nothing with that-"

"DON'T TRY TO PRETEND! It's perfectly obvious- I wake up, you're gone, George is gone- nothing left but your fucking blood on the pillow you slept with last night. Or was it George's blood, Bill? What did you do, Bill? What did you do?"

"Of course it was _my _blood. I'm telling you have no idea where that… _thing _went," Bill spat. 

"How can you call him a _thing_? He was your brother for fuck's sake!" 

Bill shifted uncomfortably as his stomach grumbled. "He was _not _my brother. _My _brother died several years ago." 

"I feel like my head is trying to come apart," Fred cried, tugging, tugging at his short hair. "This is a bad time, Bill. This is a _fucking bad _time to pull this shit. _Tell me where he is_!" 

"I'M TELLING YOU I DON'T KNOW!" 

Fred moaned pitifully. He jumped up and barreled toward Charlie's bedroom door, screaming all the while. He did not have a chance to bang against it because Charlie appeared, looking very tired and green. 

"Where is he?" 

"Who?" said Charlie weakly. 

"YOU KNOW WHO GODDAMNIT!" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"How could you make me go through this again?" Fred pressed his hands to the sides of his head, would have yanked at his hair but it was too short, and wailed through his teeth. "You'll be sorry for this. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO BE REALLY FUCKING SORRY FOR THIS!" 

For a moment it looked like he might beat his head against the wall, but he disappeared. 

The room was dead silent. It was minutes before anyone moved.

"What was he on about?" Charlie asked Bill, holding out a hand . 

"That boy. I guess he's gone." 

"Good riddance." 


	19. Last Days

****

CHAPTER NINTEEN 

LAST DAYS

The full moon.

"Sean, we have to go." Remus shook the boy, who responded by curling up on the floor where he lay, groaning, and pulling the covers over his head. 

Remus sighed. His eyes wandered to Bill and for a moment his heart stopped. He studied the man's wasted chest and could not see it move. He heard Charlie's voice in his head: _Voldemort is a filthy fucking liar. He's going to be long dead before Friday, isn't he? _

With a trembling hand he touched Bill's neck. It was warm, but no pulse. Remus shook him, harder than necessary. 

Bill's eyes fluttered open with some effort. They were rolled in his head and took a moment to focus on Remus' face. 

"Mm?" 

"Nothing," said Remus, sitting back on his haunches. "Nothing. I'm sorry, go back to sleep." 

"Time to go?" 

"Not yet. Tomorrow. Sleep, Bill." 

But instead he looked blearily around. "I'm thirsty." 

"I'll get you some water," Remus stood, and as he walked passed the lump that was the boy, was inexplicably irritated. "Sean, get up _now._" 

Sean rolled over and stretched, yawning loudly. "What bloody time is it?" 

"It's time to get up." 

"It's still morning, isn't it?" 

Remus was sanitizing a cup. "Yes." 

"Why so early?" 

"We've things to do." 

"Like what?" 

"We'll need supplies." 

"Like what? Wolfsbane?" 

Remus came back to the sofa. He knelt and was lifting Bill's head- 

"I can sit up." 

"It's terribly early, Bill. You've only been asleep-" 

Bill sat, his face set and determined against the pain, and drank. 

"Remus-" Sean began. 

"It's too late for Wolfsbane, Sean." 

"Well it wasn't too late a week ago, was it?" It was Sean's normal taunt, but this time his voice was full of fear. Tears were close. He looked very small and pathetic, with his bruised face, wrapped in a huge quilt. "Why didn't we get any?" 

"We couldn't afford it." 

Sean looked confused. 

"Wolfsbane is very expensive, Sean." 

"It is?"

"Yes." 

"I've got loads of it frozen at home…" 

"It's too late for that now," Remus repeated quietly, regretfully.

Sean swallowed. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself. "Remus?" 

"Yes." 

"We're cured. We- I'm not- not anymore- He said we were- we laughed at the moon, remember? We laughed at it." 

Never in his life had Remus felt as he did at that moment; not when he was bitten, not when James and Lilly were killed, not when Ministry officials had stormed his house and dragged him away with his wrists chained to his ankles like he was an unruly hog… never… but now he could feel it, so close that it was frightening, so close he could almost see and touch it. 

His breaking point. 

It was so near it was inside him, burning in his stomach and pounding in his heart. 

But why now? Why now after everything did he feel so dangerously close to losing control? 

A shudder passed over him, and the sensation was subdued. 

For the moment. 

"Remus?" Sean said again, timidly.

"I've told you what I think about the cure, child," Remus said quietly, massaging his temples. "Is it bad?" 

"Is what bad?" 

"Transforming without the Wolfsbane?" 

"It's… you'll be fine." 

His head ached.

***********

Bill was left alone and lay staring at the ceiling. His vision, and that meant everything that he could see before him, was tunneling now, going gray around the edges. 

"Ah, look at this." said the voice of Voldemort. Bill was not surprised. He'd had this déjà vu-like feeling… he'd been expecting a visit. 

"I have until tomorrow." Bill reminded him calmly. 

"I know, I know. But I come to check on you." Voldemort clucked. "Poor child. Skin so gray. Let me wipe the sweat from your brow." 

"Don't you touch me." 

"Don't excite yourself, Bill." Voldemort chuckled nastily. "Oh Bill, so ill, are you ready to spill?" He lifted the billows of his robes and broke into a grotesque tap dance. "Oh Bill, so ill, are you ready to spill? Oh Billy, so illy, are you ready to spilly? Ha, ha!" 

"I've one more day." 

"But why, oh my, you're ready to die!"

"Stop it." 

"And if you die your ma will cry and your pa will sigh and they will ask 'oh why oh why" and under a dragon your brother will fry!" 

"Get out." 

"Alright, alright, enough fun. Only try to make light. This is just as frustrating for me as it is for you, believe me. What I want to know is so _simple_. _Where _are the remaining Weasleys? _Where _is Harry? Perhaps I just wish to say _hello _to them, Billy. How do you know? Who are you to say that I only want to kill them? Maybe I've bought Harry a Fondue pot. Maybe I want your sister's hand in marriage. Oh Billy, tell me, do you think your father would consent?"

Bill avoided looking at the retched man and struggled to sit up. The pain was sharp. The tunnel spun and whirled. He heaved, the world darkened - he blacked out and came back so fast that he still knew what happening. In his lap was thick, warm, stinking blood. 

Oh, the smell. 

Why was the fluid of life be so distasteful to the nose? 

"Ick," said Voldemort, crinkling the nose of the man who's body he'd stolen. "You'd made a mess. Let me clean it up, Bill." 

"How can you… be so sure… that I know anything?" Bill said, falling back, breathing hard. 

Voldemort smiled crookedly. "Ah, my child. I am a man of my word. Disgusting and evil, so they say, but I keep my promises- well, this time I'll keep my promise. I told you you would die, and you will." 

"That's… no incentive to tell you anything-"

"I don't need you to tell me anything!" Voldemort snapped suddenly. 

Bill was relieved instead of frightened, for he could see that Voldemort was struggling for control. 

When Voldemort spoke again he was very calm. "Why do I care where that retched Potter is? Let him hide forever. It is obvious he is frightened of me- frightened enough to hide for seven years. " 

Bill shut his eyes. He was _so tired._ He didn't know if he had it in him to scream. He pressed his lips together, gathered his breath, but all that came out was a hoarse cry: "Charlie. Help." 

"Charlie can't hear you," Voldemort laughed, "You know that." 

"Why are you still here? Let me alone to die." 

There was a long, terrible silence. 

"_Tell me who the fucking Secret Keeper is_." 

It was Bill's turn to laugh. It hurt, and the blood in his lap was growing sticky. "It scares you that you don't know where he is, doesn't it? It frightens you that not everyone is a _yellow bastard _like your followers, doesn't it? Like you. You've got it all turned around. It's _you _that is frightened of _him._" 

Voldemort's eyes burned with fury. He clenched his thin red fists together, in and out, in and out. "You are a _stupid _man." 

"Even if I did know something, I sure as hell wouldn't tell _you_," he replied with a smirk.

"How would your mother feel?" said Voldemort. "After I kill you I'll be forced to move on to Charlie, and if he won't tell me, I'm sure your brother Fred grows tired of his ignorant, half-retarded twin-" 

"She would rather us all dead than in league with the likes of you." 

"Ha ha!" roared Voldemort, "Someone should have told that to your brother Percy!" 

Voices rung out from down the hall, accompanied by thunderous footsteps. 

With a _pop!_ he knew Voldemort was gone. 

"Oh god, Bill," he heard Charlie say, "I told you not to drink that shit. I told you-" 

"Shut…up…it only… wore off." Bill could not longer see anything clearly in front of him. It seemed he could not gather enough air to speak. 

Was this it? Was this what the last moments felt like? 

_That bastard, _Bill thought, _He said I had one more day. That lying bastard..._

"_BILL_!" 

The sound came from so far away… he heard his brother screaming more words, but it seemed like only one, jumbled together like the slur of an excited drunk, and everything was so black… were his eyes even open? Was he trying to open them? His body was spinning… so this is what last moments were like. It wasn't as scary as he'd thought it would be… but he did wish he'd gotten to say goodbye to Charlie and everyone else…

Goodbye… 

"Here he comes. Darling, get out of my way-"

"-I'm only trying-"

"-Move back now." 

"You really should leave the healing up to me, Sweet-" 

"-Michael Fitzgerald, how many times have I patched you up over the last three years? Now move back. All of you, just move away from the sofa." 

A woman's voice. 

An angel? 

"Open your eyes, sweetie," said the woman's voice again. 

Small hands on the back of his head. He knew his meant he was to drink something… he was choking on something sweet tasting… 

"There you go, darling. Slow sips. There you go." 

Bill opened his eyes to see the round face of a woman. 

"Mum?" he asked. 

He was startled laughter around him. 

"I should hope not," said the woman indignantly. "Little sister, perhaps." 

Bill felt like he was swimming, just breaking the surface of conscious waters. He willed his eyes to focus on her again… it couldn't be… "Ginny?" 

There was more laughter, so loud he cringed because it stung his ears. 

"Alright Darla, you've got him awake, let me have a look," said the impatient voice of Fitzie. 

"Giving him more of that bloody slop won't make any difference," said the bitter voice of Ian. 

Bill heard fighting for a bit, and heard the woman ushering the fighters into the hallway. He felt Charlie's hand on his forehead and knew that it was okay to drift to sleep; that Charlie would never let him die. 


	20. Will Take To Biting Itself

****

CHAPTER TWENTY

WILL TAKE TO BITING ITSELF…

_I will not become a wolf. I will not become a wolf. Mind over matter I will not become a wolf. I have control over my own body, I will not become a wolf. Remus is only being careful, I will not become a wolf. The pain is all in my head. The pain is all in my head and I will not become a wolf._

It was a hell of a psychological problem, Sean thought. To, by sheer power of the brain, cause convulsive shivers, a cold sweat, massive racks of spine-compacting, writhing, teeth gritting pain… an amazing feat. 

And of course Remus was just fine. Sean was beginning to doubt if the man was even human. Remus had given him two or three more potions and now was sitting on the other side of the hayloft. It looked like he was _meditating, _for Christ's sake! He had not one gleam of moisture on _his _forehead, while Sean was drenched and trying not to scream. 

"How do you do it, Remus?" He called. 

Remus didn't answer. He was too busy finding his fucking Zen. 

Sean laid back and looked out at the fading sky. Almost time. Almost time- it would be horrible and then it would be over. For a _whole _month. Over. And still… maybe it wouldn't happen at all. Maybe the man in the white cloak hadn't been lying. 

_If only Remus had let me go back. I don't give a shit if I'd have to be evil, just to never feel like this again… _

"Are you hungry?" 

"Not at all," Sean answered before he realized the voice _did not _belong to Remus. Feeling weak, he merely turned his head to see a red-headed boy about his age. He looked like a smaller, younger, and not-as-built Charlie. "Where the hell did you come from?" 

"The window," the boy said, "Have a bite of this cookie." 

"You'd better get out of here. We'll be turning into werewolves soon, me and that man over there… we'll tear you apart." 

"Eat the cookie. It'll make you all better. Better so you can go home." 

"I can't go home, my family's gone." 

"I know where they are," said the boy with a smile. 

Sean sat, his back screaming. "You know where my family is?" 

"Tyler's all better. He wants to teach you to play Quidditch. You and John." 

Sean was feeling less pain and more hay, sticking him in all the wrong places now. "Who the hell are you?" 

"My name is George," said the boy, "It's a peanut butter cookie. My mother made them. I haven't gotten to meet her yet, but Dad says very soon." 

"Who is your dad?" 

"You look sleepy. Did you know that Remus has poisoned you? If you don't eat the cookie you'll go to sleep and never wake up." 

Sean rose painfully on his feet and hands, crab-walking backward, away from the boy. "I'm not eating any cookie. Who sent you here?" 

"My dad sent me." George leaned in toward Sean, whispering worriedly, "There's a voice in my head. It sounds like me. It tells me to go home, go home." 

Sean leapt to his feet. "Remus!" 

"But I don't know where that is," the boy continued. "Do you know where home is?"

"You'll be fine, boy," Remus called. 

"Remus there's a boy over here and he'd talking madness!" 

"Hallucinations are common without Wolfsbane, Sean. Try to relax." 

Sean studied the boy darkly. "You're not real, he says." 

"Your mum misses you. Caroline has been crying for you a lot, lately. Fred- not my twin Fred, but your younger brother Fred- he told her that you're never coming back. He's a 'mean little fuck,' my Dad told me, and Dad has much hope for him. I don't know what he means by that. My Dad is a strange man-"

"SHUT UP!" Sean bellowed, "You are not real!"

"I am too real," George said, "And you're going to sleep forever soon if you don't eat this. It's good. Dad says you won't turn into a monster." 

The pain was returning. Sean looked passed the boy's non-real head and saw that the sun was nearly gone. Minutes now. "Leave me alone." 

"I can't. You _have _to eat it." 

"I'll prove that you're not real," resolved Sean, feeling his face flush, "I'm going to throw you off this hayloft, and then I'll know." 

"I'll die if you do that. My dad would be awfully mad. He's scary when he gets mad. I saw him in the big room with the ugly ceiling. It was scary. It was when I got this." The boy pulled up the sleeve of his robe and showed Sean a black mark, _the _black mark, fresh, moist and dark. 

"REMUS!" Sean bellowed, "MY HALLUCINATION IS A DEATH EATER!" 

"Lord Sean," Remus called from the other side. He sat up and dusted himself off, "I'll be right over to give you another- MERLIN'S TEMPLE! Sean… move away from him." 

"Sir," the boy said to Remus, "You shouldn't poison people. My father told me about how Fred's brother poisoned George. People die when you poison them, and it makes other people get very sad and go crazy." 

Remus was coming closer as Sean was inching farther away. "Who are you? How did you know where to find us?" 

"He knows about my family, too!" 

"I know because my father told me." 

"What else does he tell you?" asked Remus. 

The boy shook his head. "My father told me not to tell you anything. Now I know the voice in my head is evil, because it tells me the opposite of everything my father tells me. Sean, please eat this cookie. You're going to become a monster in just a couple of minutes." 

"What voice?" Remus asked frantically. "Tell me, whose voice? What does the evil voice say?" 

"It says that I should tell you everything. It says that I should go back home, to Fred's house, but I know Fred doesn't want me there. It says 'let me in. Let me in and everything will be alright.'"

Remus was white as coffin-lining. "It's impossible-" 

"You still think I'm hallucinating?" said Sean. 

"George," Remus said, "You should listen to the voice inside yourself. You should go home to Fred. Fred loves you." 

The boy's face crumpled. "I don't know what that means!" 

"It means he likes you. He misses you." 

"No. I thought he missed me before… that's why I found him… I only made him sad!" Suddenly the boy was twitching, pushing at his temples. Obviously the voice in his head was loud and aggressive. "Shut up! You're a liar! Father, help me! He won't eat!" 

Remus pounced on George, knocking him to the ground. There was no struggle. Remus whispered in the boy's ear, and the boy moaned, "_No… No!" _

Someone Sean recognized suddenly appeared over Remus and George, and Remus was flying across the barn like a discarded rag doll, head over feet, head over feet. 

He hit a beam and fell unconscious onto the soft floor of hay below. 

The familiar man turned to Sean. "Come with me." 

"Come with you?" Sean said, "I think not." 

"I want to take you home." 

"I- I can't go home… the moon-" 

"-Do you not recognize me, Sean?" 

Sean looked closely. Dark hair, nice teeth… 

"Mr. Tromedlov?" 

The man nodded. "Come with me. I have the cure." 

Sean narrowed his eyes. "For what price?" 

"Just the Mark. Just a little Mark. That's all." 

"And I'll never be a werewolf again?" 

"Never." 

Sean might have said no. He might have said no if the pain had not started again, worse than ever, like no other pain he had even known. His body was an exposed nerve; raw, struck, burning. Pain so surreal the first response is to get away from it, because it _is not_, _can not_, be a part of you. He squirmed, trying to escape, but he was surrounded and there was nowhere to go. 

"Okay," he choked. 

"Okay?" 

"Yes." 

Mr. Tromedlov smiled. "Does it hurt, Sean?" 

"Yes… yes." 

"Are you ready?" 

"Y-yes. Hurry. Please." 

He was lifted from the ground and thrown over the man's shoulder, a very uncomfortable position indeed. 

"Father," he heard George say. 

"You stay here with Remus, my son." 

Sean heard George cry out as Mr. Tromedlov pushed him over the edge of the hayloft. 

Indeed. 


	21. The Man

****

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE MAN

WARNING: There are three new chapters preceding this one. 

The room was enormous, easily as big as the Great Hall, but the ceiling wasn't enchanted to look like the sky above. The ceiling was a swirling, sickly orange, mingling with an even nastier green- abscess green, vomit green. 

The ceiling clearly wasn't meant to be looked at.

"There are no bigger or better things," someone said, reading Sean's mind, and though it was raspy, middle aged voice that could have just as easily been his father, the simple sounds made him ache to hear. 

"My Master," Sean replied, if only to test the words on his tongue. His restless stomach soured.

His Master Lord Voldemort stood on one side of The Birth, the great gold leafed throne-like chair where he would become his Master's servant; on the other side, a pale young man that Sean was sure must be Percy. He looked a lot like Bill, only he wore thick glasses that made his eyes look big and tired and frightened. 

Sean felt hands on his elbows and knew it was time to walk forward. Others stood on each side of the red carpet, some unfamiliar and others he recognized from history books. They smiled and nodded as he grew nearer to Voldemort and Percy. 

He didn't want to sit in that chair. It was huge and looked far too comfortable, as if it might swallow him whole and belch out the remains. 

Percy came forward, stately, dignified in dark velvet robes. He put his hands on each of Sean's shoulders. 

"My Brother," Percy said, "Today you are reborn… Beware-" he paused here to clear his throat, "-I mean _be_ _aware_-" 

Sean had never seen anyone move so fast. In a flash Voldemort had struck Percy on the side of his head with a curse, and just as quickly Percy fell to the ground, rolled down a few of the stairs, and came to rest with a bleeding scalp. 

Nobody moved. 

"Be _aware_," Voldemort continued for Percy as if nothing at all had happened, "That you are about to sign over your life. Sit down." 

Sean did as he was told. The change of position awoke his aching bones, though the Birth was soft and plush. He was reminded the transformation was still upon him. He broke a sweat, the pain worsening with each pulse of his heart. 

"You give yourself to me," Voldemort continued, "Your life is mine. You wake up in the morning for me. You exist for _my _bidding. You exist for _my _purposes." 

Sean squirmed. His spine screamed and twisted in pain. "Please sir," he moaned, "I don't have long." 

"Shut up. If you disobey I strike you down without another thought. Dead." 

"Please, sir," Sean cried. 

"Say it," Voldemort whispered. 

Sean moaned. 

"_Say it_." 

"Say _what_?" 

"If you disobey he shall strike you down without another thought," was the frantic reply of a nearby Death Eater. 

Sean swallowed. His throat was huge and dry. "If I disobey…I… he shall… strike you… strike me down without another thought." 

"As sure you are reborn, you are nothing without me," Voldemort said. 

"Huh?" Sean was gasping now. His skin prickled in readiness to sprout hair. 

"SAY IT!" Voldemort roared. 

With the exception Percy, all the Death Eaters flinched. 

"But it doesn't make any sense," Sean cried, "_As sure as I am reborn I am nothing without you_? Who the hell _wrote_ that?" 

Sniggers erupted throughout the room. Sean was in too much pain to care. 

"QUIET!" Voldemort ordered, and was instantly obeyed. "Enough of this. You've had your chance. Get him out of that chair! Throw him in the dungeon!" 

They rushed forward as Sean felt the strong force of the moon. His back arched, his teeth grew, dug into his bottom lip and he tasted sweet blood. It took the pain away like an elixir and now he was stretching numbly, growing larger, ever larger. His nose burst with a thousand different smells. He growled, deep, throaty, and threatening. 

"Stun him!" A voice called. 

He could no longer move.

That sweet taste…

More.

His teeth sank into a pale arm and it caused him pain, but his mouth was filled with the sweet, warm liquid and that was all that mattered. 

More blood. 

Only this. 

******

As quickly as the wall was destroyed it built itself back up. George was dead. He was dead, dead, dead; Fred could feel that emotional weight trying different paths and weak spots in the wall but it stood firm. Not a thought was in Fred's mind as he lifted George from the ground. A mush of blood and hay, that was all that was left of him. 

It wasn't exactly true that his head was completely blank; there was a clear and concise list of what he must do: 

Gather up all of George's parts.

Bury the pieces of George's body.

Kill the naked man who lay unconscious among George's remains, before he woke up. 

Fred did not even grunt under George's weight. He thought nothing of stooping back down to retrieve George's arm, nor the pool of blood he slipped in leaving the barn. 

The enchanted shovel was nearly done. The hole was five foot deep and three foot wide, at least. It would have to do. He threw the body in like a bag of trash, bade the shovel to fill it. 

Now, to the matter at hand. 

The man was up on his elbows when Fred returned. Fred couldn't remember his name; that sort of information was on the other side of wall. All that lay on his side was dead, dead, dead; kill, kill, kill. 

The man rubbed his eyes, sat, shivered, looked around and saw the mess. He clapped his hand over his mouth. 

"You killed him," Fred whispered. 

"No," said the man. "Fred… do you remember me..." 

"The werewolf. It's true what they say." 

"No… Fred, you listen to me. He was already dead… his neck broke… I…" The man's face crumpled, his voice cracked, "I tore him up… I tore him up last night… but he was already dead." 

"I'm going to kill you." 

"I'm sorry, Fred. It wasn't… it wasn't me… Voldemort pushed him off the loft- he landed on his head-" 

"I'm going to kill you now." 

"Fred…" 

******

His waking thought was a wish, a plea, to return to that depth of sleep where it was not dark and dank and smelly. Where he didn't ache like he'd tried to kiss a moving train and slimy water did not drip from unknown places to rest in his hair. 

And oh god, that fucking smell. The odors of rot and death and misery were everywhere, seemingly breeding and ever more pungent in his nose. 

It was a long while before he cared to open his eyes, but when he did there was nothing to see but a tiny hand lighting a wall torch, quickly in and out of the barred hole in the door of the room in which he was locked. And bolted. And certainly trapped. 

"Daylight," the dungeon elf said. 

Sean sat blinded by the new light. It might well have not been there. It only lit a tiny round cell of dust; a bowl of water at one end, as if he were a dog. 

And now he could see great black scabs all up and down his arms. How embarrassing. Was this all the control he had without his wolfsbane? He was suddenly hungry for it, though it wouldn't do him any damn good, especially now. 

He saw large gaps of missing brick between his and the prison next to him- even as he peaked in it, a good distance away, tiny pieces were falling. He could see nothing, apparently this prisoner received no daylight, but heard faint, hoarse mumbling. He inched painfully closer to a hole the size of a hinkypunk tank. He didn't dare put his head through, but whispered, "Hello?" 

"Let me in," someone mumbled from inside. 

"Oh. I don't want to be talked to," Sean decided, turning his back to the hole. Sulking alone sounded much better. 

The mumbling became soft, weary sobbing. "Let me in." 

"Shut up, you fuckin loony! I've got a headache." 

Sean was blessed with a little moment of quiet. He lay out on the disgusting floor to enjoy the silence and feel sorry for himself. There was a _drip, drip, drip_ from the ceiling_-_ he thought he heard something crawling across the floor… too quiet. Too quiet. 

"You!" Sean called to the hole, "Where is this place?" 

"Do you… know… the Death Curse?" Whoever the voice belonged to, by the sound of it, could hardly breathe. 

"I do…" Sean replied cautiously. "Why?" 

"Come- come to the hole… please." The voice was desperate. "Bring your torch." 

But whoever was in the next cell could be in no condition to hurt him, so Sean dragged himself first to the flame on the wall, then much more slowly to the hole-

"GODS! What the _fuck_ happened to you?"

The man, older than Sean but still very young, had seen been seeing no sun. The parts of his skin not covered in filth were horrible, depraved shades of blue and grey. He was the most pathetic sight Sean had ever seen, absolutely, but there was something shaming –and very familiar- about looking at him. Sean was ashamed almost to tears of his earlier plan, to curl up on the floor and pity himself until he died. Not when someone could suffer like this man and stay alive. Sean wondered why, how it would be possible. He looked so terribly uncomfortable, shifting weakly, looking for a less awkward position when there just wasn't one; they had hung him there just so, so that his bottom didn't quite touch the ground. The weight must have all been in his shoulders and wrists- he was a breathing corpse, sitting with his back to the wall, hands chained to a huge bolt over his head. Unbearable. Sean squeezed through the hole and went to him. 

The man studied him blearily, then closed his eyes, head lulling back and forth, back and forth, his bottom half squirming uselessly and endlessly beneath him. Leg in, leg out. Hip to the right, hip to the left. On knee bent. Both. Neither. His chest heaved outward and he gasped for air. It sunk in and he breathed quietly. 

Sean came within a foot of the man and was frightened. 

"Do you know the Death Curse." The man said again. 

"…yes…" 

The man lifted his head; so weary. "Use it on me," he said, "and then God help you, use it on yourself." 

"I haven't got a wand," Sean replied lamely. 

"Please… let me in…" 

"Let you- what?" 

"God… let me… let me in…" 

"What are you talking about? In where? How long have you been here?" Sean sat down in front of him. 

The man lifted his head with a new but no less pained energy. He squinted in the torchlight. "Long? There's no long anymore. There's no short. You sit. You sit and you sit and sit and fucking sit and sit and sit and after a while time the leaves. There's no one but you, rotting, rotting, rotting…" And he was exhausted again. His chest heaved. 

"You're insane," Sean whispered. 

The man laughed. "By now, I'm certain." It was the most insincere and desperate thing Sean had ever heard. He jumped at the noise, nearly dropping the torch. There was something eerily familiar in that laugh, something familiar about the whole thing that he could not place. 

"I have to get your hands out of those cuffs," Sean heard himself say. 

"I know you."

"You know me?" 

"It's not you," the man said, "He was older, but you have the same smell." 

"You're insane." The bolt was stuck fast, though the wall was crumbling all around it. It must have been enchanted. 

"Like the forest and raw meat," he continued, "You're a werewolf." 

Sean froze. "A- a werewolf? I don't know what you're saying. You scare me. I'm just going to free you from this bolt, because it must be very uncomfortable, and then I'm going to crawl back to my cell and there's no need for us to ever speak again." 

"Look at what you hold in your hand," said the man. 

A torch made of wood. Sean remembered Remus at the gates of the dragon colony, how he opened the outhouse door and burnt the hell out of his hand. He put the torch on the moist floor and it hissed away, leaving them in total darkness. 

"_Alohomora!"_ It was the strangest sensation. He could feel a heat, traveling from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, up his chest, down his arm. Somewhat like the usual sensation when he used magic, only slower, more forced. The end lit torch, but it _hurt_. His palm burned quickly and he dropped it. 

"Put it in my hand," the man said. 

Sean got on his knees and felt around. Then, rather awkwardly, he found the man's foot and followed it all that way up to where his hands dangled. There was no hesitation once the man had a hold of the torch. He muttered something, there was small _clink_ of the cuffs giving way, and he was free. The torch lit and the man was laying on the floor, smiling weakly at him. His face looked completely different. So familiar. Where had he seen this face before? 

"What's your name?" Sean asked him. 

"George." 

"MERLIN'S FUCKING BEARD! So this is what Charlie and Bill did to you. Those bastards! They really did hate you, didn't they? Because you're a copy of Fred's dead twin-" 

"No," the man said, "I _am _Fred's dead twin, and you have to help me get out of here." 

__

Special thanks to Trisha and Nikki for keeping on my ass about this fic. Can you believe I'm not done get? Lord, will it ever end? 

I almost forgot! Nikki (haha, you asked for it!), and anyone else who chooses to accept it, here is your challenge: Actually first I should say that I'm not exactly sure what a challenge entails, so I'm making it up. Here we go: 

1. Must contain Fred and George. Must NOT contain the phrase: "other half" 

2. Must be in third person 

3. Must contain a green piggy bank

4. No ships. No mention of ships. Rose doesn't like ships. 

5. Beer must spill. I like it when beer spills. Can you tell?

6. Harry must use the phrase "fabric softener"

7. Must NOT contain any female characters

8. Fred must ask George for his trousers back no less than three times. 

9. Must contain an eloquent and charming frog. 

Good luck. 


	22. Home

JK Rowling is nowhere to be found. No money. Do not sue. Thanks. 

****

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HOME

Remus crossed his legs and assumed the meditative position. He had acted as a monster but now, goddamn it, he would die like a man. 

Fred held his wand high over his head. It was stained a rusting cranberry color, dead blood. His hands were brown with it, soon to be vibrant again with the spillage of Remus when he transfigured his wand into something sharp, something silver, silver and sharp and stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, stab-

"Let me in." The words fell heavily from Fred's mouth, laying there between him and the werewolf. Fred's insanity seemed to follow it, if only for a second, and his eyes were on Remus, actually seeing him, perhaps even recognizing him. 

"What did you say, Fred?" said Remus urgently. 

But Fred did not hear. His arm dropped. Something had happened. Something inside of him felt different. He had been, for years, so many years, like an empty cauldron- not anymore. Something warm. Something- something- he couldn't describe it. And it was time- for what he didn't know but he wanted to run. Run for as long as it took. Run _to_, not _from._

__

Brother. What did that word mean anymore? Something old and gone. Something new. Something that had never truly left. Something dried up, withered like Mum's Muggle plants that were so dependant on humans to keep them alive- delicate and broken by a strong wind, like the brown crispiness of an expired leaf- shiny, green, grown plump and fat and alive again. 

Remus gave up his die-with-dignity stance, conscious of his nakedness, and drew up his bony knees.

And relief. It inexplicably washed over Fred, over his cheeks in aqua tears. Something in him was full, warm, and complete- 

"_Fred-er-rick," _someone sang. 

Fred heard the werewolf gasp but didn't look to see who was calling his name. His nose itched. He scratched it and smelt George's blood. 

George's blood, reddish-brown and _common, _like the blood of _any_ dead man, common and useless and _gone_.

That feeling. 

A lie. 

It all had to be a_ fucking lie. _

"Oh Merlin, no…" said Remus under his breath, frozen. 

Fred looked at his wand, muttered, willing its transformation into a long and vicious silver blade. His eyes flashed again, they were insane and dead. 

Someone behind him laughed. 

It was Voldemort, coming up behind Fred, creeping up on him, pleased and jovial, virtually drooling with hunger for Fred, glistening drops of searing evil. 

"Kill him," Voldemort chuckled. "He killed your twin, Fred." 

"Oliver? Voldemort- how- how did you get that body?" Remus said, "Do you hear me?" 

"Kill him, Fred." Voldemort hissed. 

"_Voldemort_," Remus held out his naked arm. "You've always wanted me. Take me. Give me the Mark right now." 

It was no use. The flesh where the Mark would go was shingled and black from the night before. 

"Kill the werewolf, Fred. He tore your brother to shreds." 

"You don't want Fred," Remus said, "You've destroyed him. His mind is gone forever." 

"Listen to _me_!" Fred called out. He stood over Remus but was looking _through_ him; he spoke these words to no one. It was as if he couldn't hear them himself. 

The blade was poised and trembling. 

"Easy now," Remus said, as if Fred were at the same time a small child and vicious dog, "Come here. G-give me your hand." 

Fred choked on something- words, trying to come. "T-Take Remus' hand, Fred," he said. "Do it."

But there was no determination in his voice. The voice was not his. 

The wall, trying to come down. _Begging _to crumble. 

"Ignore the voice," said Voldemort, "It _lies. Kill _the werewolf like he _killed _George." 

George. 

Fred's arm fell to his side, the blade bouncing twice in the hay and settling there, pointing, accusing Remus of some unknown offense. Remus dared not take his eyes off Fred, but stared at him while reaching for a scrap of cloth to tie around his waist. 

"Take his hand, Fred," Fred said again, his eyes blank, shiny, lifeless. "Now. TAKE HIS HAND!" 

Remus couldn't hesitate. He threw himself forward, encircling Fred's knees. 

They were gone, Apparated away with a small _pop!_

********

In the dank cells, Sean raised his eyebrow. "What did you say?" 

"What?" George said, shaking the dead out of his expression. "Oh. I wasn't talking to you." 

"Well _sorry_."

"Shut up. Let me think."

"Ah, so you're going to be a prick now that I've freed you,? You don't look like a ghost. You don't look very dead, either. So what you're telling me is that even though you choked to death-" 

"Shut it." The man raised himself to his knees, wobbled, fell down again. "I didn't choke on anything." 

"So Charlie and Bill were lying?" 

George took Sean's arm for support, engaging a handful of scab instead. Sean's howl echoed every which way. 

"_ARE YOU TRYING TO FUCKING KILL ME?" _

"Good lord shut up," George whispered, dimming the torch. "Shut up!"

"Trying to take my fucking arm off!" 

"What's going on in there?" said a stern voice from outside. 

Torch light, a stepping stool scraping across the floor. 

"Get back to your cell!" George said.

Cradling his arm, Sean ungracefully squeezed himself ass-first through the hole. There he lay on his back, trying not to breathe, trying not to think. 

"What are you doing in there, twin?" The dungeon elf called into the darkness. 

"Let me dance, please!" George whined, "Water! You have to let me shave my stockings!" 

The dungeon elf chuckled. "Completely out of your mind, aren't you? Quiet, now." And his footsteps faded down the corridor. 

Dark and silence for long minutes, and then George burst out laughing. "Alright?" 

"Leave me alone." 

"Listen-" 

"I don't want to listen, you depraved lying _bastard_." 

"You want to sit and rot, do you?" 

Sean sniffed. "My older brother's an auror. He'll rescue me." 

Again, George roared with laughter. "Do you have any idea where you are? You're several stories_ underground, _where your family clock has already declared you dead." 

"How do you know all this, lunatic?" Sean said, curling up and hugging his knees. "Besides, our family clock reads _deceased." _

George laughed throatily until he was choking. "Oh, you kill me."

"Fuck off." 

"What year is it?" 

"Why?" 

"Never mind. I don't want to know," George said, "I've been here long enough to have hundreds of neighbors in that cell of yours. I reckon You-Know-Who doesn't know that I'm next to a temporary holding cell. He wouldn't like it at all." 

However uselessly- he couldn't see George anyway- Sean turned sharply around. "What do you mean, 'temporary holding cell?'" 

"You're waiting to be executed. In front of The Dark Lord's new inductees," George laughed through his nose, "You'll be used to strike fear into the hearts of future Death Eaters." 

"I'll _what?" _

"I don't know what you did, but you must have really, really, really pissed him off." 

"And you think that's funny?" 

"That you had no idea, yes. Yes I do." 

"Haha." Sean found himself curling up tighter. Cold swept his shoulder blades. "I'll tell you what I did… if you tell me how the _hell _you're the dead George." 

"No deal. We're escaping now, remember?" 

"Likely," Sean said with a snort, "I'm stiff as a broomstick, and you can't walk." 

"I will. I'm gathering my strength. Any second now." 

"Weren't you just ranting about how impossible escape is?"

George giggled.

"What are you so damned _happy _about?"

"We're in dreadful shape, aren't we?" 

"Christ."

"I didn't say escape was impossible. It's already half done." 

"How about," Sean said, peeling angrily at one scabby arm, "While you're gathering your strength, you explain. Because I'm not moving until then." 

Silence for a while, then a deep sigh. "Are you sure?" 

"Sure of what?" 

"I guess not." 

"What?" 

More laughter. 

"What-"

"Okay, sorry- sorry. I'll tell you. You know about Bill and the gum. Harry gave us a thousand 

Galleons but that autumn we spent the lot on new-" 

"Are you lying? Harry Potter? You really expect me to believe that _the_ Harry Pottergave _you _a THOUSAND galleons?" 

"Yes, lying through my fucking teeth," George said, "considering how profitable it will be to do so." 

"Fine. Go one." 

"Learn to shut your face once in a while and you'll be a great deal more popular, I promise you." 

"Fuck off!" 

"Bring yourself over here. I'm talking too loud." 

Sean fell across the hole. He and George looked each other in the eyes- moist, glinting curves in the distance, shining among the wet and the dark and the stench. Sean's eyes vibrated with irritation, George's breath pitched and started: the laughter escaping, running a cup stubbornly along the bars of its prison. The situation reminded Sean of the only time he'd ever been to a Muggle village- guess he'd been outside Outer Hogsmeade after all- there was a homeless man in a black overcoat, with bright crevices suggesting the coat had once been yellow, and he stood in a mud puddle laughing and cajoling with a street sign.

__

Who's he talking to, dad?

The street sign, son. 

"I can tell whose brother you are." Sean said without humor. 

"We spent all the money experimenting with new merchandise," George went on, "one being the product that made Bill sick. So the rest of the money went to his care. We were at St. Mungo's- Fred was off paying the bill- and I met a boy in the waiting room. The same boy who gave me the idea for the gum that made Bill sick, but I thought all of that was my fault then. It was the ingredients, after all, not the idea. He told me he had a pitch for a new product-" 

"Let me guess," Sean said, pressing his fingertips together, "You followed him back to his house, which actually turned out to be this dungeon in Voldemort's fortress!" 

"No, but you're pretty hilarious," George replied flatly. "He bashed me over the head in the washroom. Then I'm here, chained to the wall. After a few days they took me to the room with the nasty ceiling, and there's Voldemort standing over me, laughing. 'Tell me where Harry Potter is,' he kept asking. And every so often I'm dragged up to that room and he asks me if I'm done rotting yet." 

"And you never are?" 

"Ha-ha," George said, looking as if he wanted to belt Sean in the nose, "Don't be stupid. I _have no idea _where Harry is. Nobody would trust Fred or me with a bloody grocery list, let alone a Secret. That's not what he wants from me anyway." 

"What does he want?" 

George had another go at sitting. Not yet. 

"My copies, for one," he said, "It was a _copy_ of me that choked to death, just like the one You-Know-Who sent to Fred this year."

"Why would You-Know-Who bother?" 

"Fred was always the crazy one. Very passionate. Capable of powerful magic, especially when he's angry. But he's unstable without me. After a long enough separation, Fred would be just the insane, heartless, powerful Death Eater that You-Know-Who needs. And loyal, especially after his twin is returned for the second time." 

"You?" 

"No- Christ you're dull." George was on his knees now, using the wall to trick his feet into supporting his weight. "A slightly more _aware _copy of me. And then You-Know-Who won't need me anymore and I'll be killed." 

"How do you know all this, when you've been locked down here for so long?" 

"I've had nothing to do all this time but break my way into Fred's mind. Me, Fred, copies, it's like we all share a thought stream. I don't like to do it- he just makes him more insane. The more I speak the more he blocks me. Me and everything else." 

Behind the two wizards, little pebbles fell from the adjoining walls and where George had been chained, fell and clicked dully on the wet floor. The quiet squeakings and scrapings of rats made Sean's skin ripple in hot waves. 

George closed his eyes, raised his face to the ceiling. "But you can hear me now, can't you Fred? You keep telling yourself it's isn't, but you know it's me, don't you? Let me in, Fred. It would be easier than escaping with this fool." 

Sean lay there, trying to let all this sink in, taking care to ignore the insane man's last comment because the dolt was going to help him escape. How he wanted to go home. All because of his stupid monthly problem. If it hadn't been for that, he would be hiding safely somewhere with his family. 

Without warning, George seized Sean and, turning him round and covering his mouth, yanked a large clump of hair right out the top of his skull.

"_Whathefuck_-"

"BAT WINGS!" George roared over Sean's muffled protest, "THE TIME OF MERLIN IS UPON THE KITCHEN SINK!" 

"I'LL HAVE YOU FLOGGED AGAIN IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP DOWN THERE, YOU DEMENTED TWIT!" The dungeon elf called back. 

George moaned submissively for the elf, but on his face was a wide smile. His energy spent, he let himself fall to the floor. 

Sean slunk away from him, rubbing furiously at his scalp. "What the fuck did you do that for?" 

George reached for the torch and grossly began to use his teeth and fingers to pry it apart. "A wizard can't use a regular stick or twig for magic is because it's a horrible conductor of magical energy. The non-magical wood overheats and we burn the fuck out of our hands."

"Yes," Sean smirked, thinking of Remus, "So?"

"So the wood is merely a casing for the magical core. Magical cores can include a lot of things- dragon heartstring, phoenix feather, giant squid tentacle, house elf finger…"

"…or werewolf hair." Sean said, blinking in disbelief. 

"Exactly." George brandished the torch and the clump of blond hair, obviously very pleased with himself. "Fur would be better, but this'll have to do." 

"Brilliant." Sean whispered. 

"Go back to your cell for now." 

Just before Sean reached the hole there was a sudden, quiet rumbling. The wall crumbled away to a fine gray dust and the two cells were one. 

George laughed with that certain madness only a free man dares experience. 

__

First of all I would like to express my disappointment that no one took my challenge. Not one person. I'll have you all know that I cried myself to sleep for WEEKS!!!

No, I didn't really. But someone really should try out the challenge. Email it to me, if you're afraid to post it. 

Once again, sorry it took so long. My interest in this fic peaks and dives. It should be over soon enough though. At least before the new book comes out. I hope. I admit, I've been working on a new one. It's called The Shame of Cain_. While Fred and George are in it, Harry is the main character. Actually, it might turn out to be a sequel to this one. Maybe. _

By the way (shameless plug), if anyone is confused about Voldemort's bodysnatching abilities in stories by Rose Rovente, see the fic Undone. 


	23. Dawn of the Dead

DISCLAIMER: I don't mean no harm. 

__

SINCE THIS FIC HAS DRUG OUT BEYOND ALL REASON, BEFORE CHAPTER 23 I PRESENT TO YOU…

A LONG LONG RECAP OF CHAPTERS 1-21

__

Percy seeks harmless revenge on Fred and George by ruining a cauldron full of Screaming Gumballs the night before their joke shop's Grand Opening. The joke goes sour, however, when George tests one in the morning and dies. Meanwhile, Voldemort grows more powerful, cleverly devising plans to convert even the most unlikely people. The Weasleys appear on his destroy list shortly after George's death, so the family goes into hiding. Fred leaves the hiding place to wander the earth as a hobo, searching for George, who he can't believe is dead. Percy leaves and joins Voldemort under the promise that Voldemort will bring George back to life. With Voldemort's advice and influence, Percy becomes the Minister of Magic. 

Charlie returns to dragon colony and drowns himself in alcohol for seven years, until on what would have been the twins' twenty-fifth birthday, Fred knocks on his door. Fred insists he is waiting for something, but he doesn't know what. 

Bill, ill as a result of volunteering to be a guinea pig for one of the twin's experiments, is sick of hiding and intends to go to Charlie. He leaves the hiding place through the front door and tries to Apparate away. He's rusty, and ends up on a sidewalk, surrounded by Muggles, unable to move. He is rushed to a Muggle hospital, where Voldemort, disguised as an annoying nurse, tracks him down, Voldemort informs Bill that he, Voldemort, is responsible for crippling him, and that Bill is going to die the day after the full moon. 

All over the country, Ministry officials begin to storm wizards' houses, hog tying and dragging werewolves from their homes. They are stuffed into trains and taken to a camp to wait out the full moon. Among these werewolves are Remus Lupin and an angry young man named Sean, who quickly befriend each other. They are taken to a giant, enclosed field near a warehouse. The werewolves celebrate when the full moon appears and they do not transform. A mysterious Mr. Tromedlov, supposedly under the orders of Minister Weasley, invites them all to join him in the warehouse. Remus and Sean don't stay around to find out why; Remus forces Sean to leave. 

A boy shows up at Charlie's flat, bearing a scary resemblance to George, though he speaks and acts as a child. Charlie thinks someone is pulling a sick joke, but Fred insists that he is in fact both the real George and a mere copy of him. Confused and tired, Charlie gets drunk and asks them to leave. 

Remus tries to take Sean home, only to find that his family has abandoned their house. In desperation, Remus and Sean go to Charlie at the dragon colony to discuss what Percy has been doing. Remus tells Charlie that he thinks the "cure" is a trick, that Voldemort himself came up with a temporary solution, one full moon only, to trick the werewolves into thinking they were cured, so that they would infect others. Voldemort would then bribe the old and new werewolves with more of the magic cure. The bribed would not only become Death Eaters, but would have to agree to sign a magical document that would allow Voldemort to restore the Dementors to Azkaban, thereby releasing his most power allies from the prison. They implement a plan; they guess that Voldemort will go to Percy on the full moon to get the final signature that he needs. Sean will act as a Secret Keeper for Bill and Charlie, because Remus anticipates that he will be too incapacitated the day after the full moon to rat on anyone, and Charlie will attempt to kill Voldemort.

At the Burrow, George and Fred try to live as normally as possible. Fred visits George's grave and speaks to him, almost as if he is really there. After a few weeks, Bill comes to terms with that fact that his end is near and visits Fred. The clone George, who remains very innocent and childlike, is lured away by a man who claims to be his father. The man is Voldemort. Meanwhile, Remus visits and says goodbye to Sirius. Sean gets the snot beat out of him by Fitzie, a tiny but fiery half-leprechaun.

The night of the full moon, Remus and Sean retreat to a barn. George the clone appears to Sean and begs him to eat a cookie that will sedate him. Sean refuses, freaks out, and is lured away by Voldemort. Remus is knocked unconscious and the George clone is thrown off the hayloft. 

Sean agrees to become a Death Eater, but makes one wisecrack too many and is thrown in the dungeon to suffer his transformation. The next morning, or night, it is impossible to tell, Sean meets the man in the cell next to him through a hole in the wall. The man hangs by his wrists from some kind of unbreakable enchanted wall. His is thin and sick and uncomfortable. He asks Sean to kill him. He tells Sean to kill himself. He reveals that he is George, not the clone George, but the real George Weasley, who had been locked down there for years. He fashions a wand from a wall torch and some of Sean's hair. Meanwhile, Remus wakes to discover that he has torn the George clone's body apart and that Fred has found them. He is about to kill Remus, and Voldemort is about to kill them both, but George is finally able to communicate with his twin. He convinces Fred to go with Remus. They Apparate away. 

The chapter that precedes this new one discusses why the hell George is in the dungeon instead of being dead. I would recommend reading it again, as it clears up some of the more important aspects of this giant fucking mess I've made. Sorry if I forgot anything. On we go.

****

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DAWN OF THE DEAD

They had a wand of sorts- now what? A darkness clouded George's eyes. For seven years (though Sean was afraid to tell him that) George had hardly used his muscles. Now that the excitement of his freedom was fading, he could walk only a few steps before his ill-used legs buckled underneath him. He had dragged himself to the far wall and just lay there. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. He muttered to himself so ferociously that it Sean wondered if it hurt. His eyes were so used to the darkness by now that he could make out freckles on George's face. And tears. 

"Don't," George said, noticing Sean, "Don't you dare say anything." 

"But-"

"I'll use the last of my strength to murder you, and why not. I've nothing else to lose." 

"George…" 

With a tiny smile on his face, George curled up and for the first time looked somewhat comfortable. "I'm out of plans. I need a decent meal, and lots of." 

"Do you know when I'll be… executed?" Sean gulped. "We could try something then." 

"No good. He did his inductions and executions last night. You must have arrived late." 

"But- he came to fetch me, himself. He couldn't have been executing people all night." 

George tugged at a tuft of hair on his chin. "I wonder…"

"What?" 

"Suddenly I give a flying shit about your sob story. Go on, tell me." 

And so Sean did, about Remus and the werewolf camp, about Bill's illness, about his family and Fitzie and Voldemort's plan and everything else he could think of. 

George seemed to be concentrating hard on his words, and when the story was over he was silent for a long time. Finally he said, "How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me how your feel. Be honest, even if it sounds pathetic, which I'm sure it will." 

Sean scooted himself a little closer to George. Insults or no, George had an idea and Sean wanted to help. "Tired. Sore. In pain."

"Do you like being a werewolf, Sean?" 

Sean raised his eyebrow. It had to be a trick question. 

George seemed not to notice. "How long until the pain goes away?" 

"Why do you ask?" Sean said sharply. 

George rolled his eyes. "Now don't be offended, Sweetie. Just answer the goddamn question." 

"Christ. You sound like Fitzie." 

"If I get out of here alive, the wee man and I will be great friends. Answer my 

goddamn question." 

"Pain fades at dinnertime…if I'm not made to sleep on a wet stone floor." 

It was a perfect time for Sean to bemoan the fact that his trousers were soaked through with muck and his bottom had long fallen asleep, but George wouldn't have been listening. Instead he half walked, half drug himself to the door on his side of the cell and tried to shove his face between the bars. "It's soon." 

"What's soon?"

"Shut it."

Sean had been told to shut up more today than in his entire life. 

"They'll come to fetch you soon. The other werewolves- he'll have them up in that main hall. While they're miserable from last night. He'll tell them the truth, use yourexecution to scare them into getting the Mark."

"Oh." Sean stared at his hands. 

Inexplicably, George's face brightened. "This is wonderful." 

"Is it?" Sean growled. 

"Absolutely. You'll take the wand; hide it in your pants- I'll show you how to make me invisible. I've heard so much living in this cell- I'll follow you- there are Apparition wards all over these dungeons and in nearly every room- except where the Birth is, or so I've been told. Voldemort thinks he doesn't need it. Those who go in that room go voluntarily and are too frightened to try to Apparate out by the time they feel they need to-"  
"-I don't Apparate very well-"  
"I do. I'll take you with me. The Death Eaters will see that I'm missing when they fetch you, they'll be distracted looking for me- it will be perfect. I can crawl up there if I have to. You know Voldemort- he's so goddamn longwinded. He'll talk forever, long enough for me to get up there and we'll both disappear- we'll find my brother." 

It all sounded well and good to Sean- but the way George muttered at random moments, yelled gibberish about Spell-O tape to someone who wasn't there…

Sean was scared. But what else was there to try?

* *******

"STOP THAT!" Charlie pounded on the _Zonko's Extraordinarily Magical Bubble of Silence_ in which Ian and Scott were dueling_._ The two either ignored Charlie or couldn't hear him.

"I TOLD YOU!" Charlie roared. "YOU ARE _NOT _COMING WITH US!"

Ian rubbed his wand against his chest as if he were shining an apple. Dropping it, he reared back empty handed and, like a Muggle baseball pitcher, chucked a purple ball of light at Scott. 

"I mean it!" Charlie began, "This is serious-"

Scott ducked. The purple ball hit the bubble's wall and oozed to the floor. A little purple creature with long, sparkling fingernails rose from the puddle on the carpet. It yanked the knees of Scott's holey jeans. Scott waddled about with his pants around his ankles, screaming, terrified of the little creature who now desired his _Smurfs_ undershorts. Ian roared with laughter no one could hear. 

"You-- Muggle-born…ARRRRRGH_!_" Charlie plunged his wand into the bubble. A gust of freed sound roared around them as it popped, tousling everyone's hair. The purple creature dissolved. "Now stop." 

Scott was in the middle of screaming a curse. Ian's head swelled. His eyes bulged 

and exploded orange sludge. 

"I SAID STOP!" Charlie whacked Ian hard with his wand, restoring his original face. 

"Sorry, Chuck," Scott muttered, bending to gather his trousers. "Good curse, E. You make it up yourself?" 

"Yeah," Ian said, and echoed "Sorry, Chuck." 

"Clean up this fucking mess." Charlie turned to Darla, Fitzie's wife, on the couch with Bill's head in her lap. She fed him spoonfuls of painkiller and the miraculous green potion (which was not working so miraculously now). "It's nearly ten o'clock." Charlie wrung his hands. "Where is Remus? Where is his noxious little shit? It's nearly ten o'clock. It's nearly _ten o'clock_." 

"Ten _in the morning,_ Chuck," Scott said, "Relax." 

"He said _early_ morning!" 

Bill tugged helplessly at Darla's shirt collar. "No… no more-"

"Drink, Bill," Darla said softly, "You've got to drink it." 

Bill wanted to ask Darla to stop giving him the painkiller Fitzie had brewed because it somehow _had_ to be responsible for the waves of pain- sporadic, nauseating waves that would pitch him and start him and roll him and crash him never, ever quiet and still toward death. But Fitzie was already gone somewhere seeking more ingredients to make more potion, more pain- just when Bill thought the pain was the most terrible it could get, it was worse. Yet no matter how unbearable it seemed to be, it was never enough to knock him unconscious. 

What he didn't know is that Fitzie, before he left, had given Bill a potion that prevented just that, for fear he might die in his sleep. 

"Something stronger," Fitzie had said, "There must be _something _stronger. I'll go home, I will. I'll ask _my dear old_ _father_." 

"Tut, Fitz." Darla told him. "Omit the dillydally." 

"Darling…?" 

"Don't you play innocent with me, Michael." Darla slammed the goblet of Bill's medicine on the end table. "Now is _not_ the time to reopen your father's wounds." 

Fitzie zipped his jacket. "Father's wounds, Cupcake? What about _my _wounds?" 

"You get your ingredients and _you hurry back,"_ Darla wagged her finger, "or pay hell. Understand me, honeypot?" 

Fitzie had sniffed, threw the end of a scarf over his shoulder, attached some absurdly large flight goggles to his eyes. He and his broomstick disappeared. 

****|** 

Charlie jumped ten feet in the air when Remus and Fred appeared in the living room. They fell to floor, Remus breathing hard, his ribs pushing with each breath through his naked back, bite scar shimmering. Fred didn't move or seem to be breathing. 

"Fred? Dear God don't tell me he's-"

"He's in shock," Remus gasped, reaching for the nearest throw rug and wrapping it about himself.

"But he's covered in blood!" Charlie gathering up his brother and inspected him. 

"The blood belongs to the George clone… I…" Remus lowered his eyes. "How is Bill?" 

"Holding up beautifully," Darla said, but her eyes were not so convincing. "Fitzie went to look for something just a wee bit stronger." 

Remus wiped moisture from his forehead. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. "We don't have time. Dress him, give him the last of the other potion. We have to go." 

Darla's eyes widened. When she spoke again it was a quiet but deadly hiss, "Don't be absurd. He can't go anywhere, he's far too-"

"He will die within the hour," Remus said forcefully, "There's little to be done about it. Please, get him dressed." 

Bill buried his face in Darla's side. His shoulders shook.

On Darla's face was murder. "What is wrong with you, talking like that in front of him! I should-"

"S'alright," Bill choked, "S'nothing I didn't know..." 

Darla shooshed him, held more painkiller to his mouth, shook her head in silent indignation.

Remus cleared his throat. "Bad news, Charlie." 

"The boy, isn't it?" Charlie scowled. "Sean. He turned, didn't he?" 

Remus paused. "Yes." 

"No," Fred said suddenly. 

Everyone spun around to him, even Bill.

"Fred?" Charlie slapped him softly on the cheek. 

"The annoying one," Fred said, as if in his sleep. "He's with me." 

"With _you?_" Charlie shook his head. 

Remus bent down very close to Fred's face. "Who is 'me?'"

"George," Fred said. He looked rather contented, like a person just awoken from sweet dreams. "Real George. Not Dead." 

Charlie slapped Fred's arm. "For fuck's sake, Fred-"

"-Quiet, quiet!" Remus said, and very loudly, as if Fred was deaf: "George? Where are you?" 

"A dungeon. You-Know-Who. How old am I?"

"Twenty-five, George. You're twenty-five." 

A dull laugh erupted from Fred's mouth. "Seven years." 

"Fred this is not funny!" Charlie yelled. "Wake up!" 

"Charlie… remember Sarah…. Filch's office, Spell-O tape, whipped cream." 

Charlie gasped. 

"What does that mean?" said Remus sharply. 

"It's- it's him… it has to be. George! Where are you? How are you still alive? What have you- how are you going to escape?" 

"Too many questions," Remus said, holding out his arm. "We'll wear him out. It's difficult to speak through another." 

"Don't tell Fred I'm alive. Might not get out." Fred twitched. His eyes fluttered open.

**********

Percy awoke feeling a hundred years old. His head injury from the night before pounded mercilessly. Downstairs he heard his mother-in-law, that cheese-grater voice of hers that never ceased to make him cringe- "…take the baby and come home with me… yes I know it'll be crowded darling but you won't be so lonely-"

Percy pushed his glasses up his nose, jumped, died with fright. Voldemort stood at the window in a nightshirt and leather slippers, an old nightcap with a puff of cotton on the end like he was some evil, giant house elf. He seemed to be admiring Minister Weasley's beautiful landscaping, the pond he'd had installed in the back yard- standing there like someone who might actually care about flowers, babies, Christmas, what have you. Someone nearly human. Nearly. The Dark Lord was in a brand new body but he could never conceal those eyes- any color: brown, green, blue, they hissed and boiled over with evil… It struck Percy that this was another one of his Master's sickeningly unfunny jokes- the way he stood pondering there, his two fingers on his chin…

Oliver Wood's chin. 

Oliver Wood, that stupid, stupid bastard! No one in Quidditch history had even attempted to stretch their career as long as Oliver had. It was a difficult sport; no one's skull was that thick, it just wasn't possible. Oliver made it to age twenty-seven before that final blow to the head. The Quaffle hit just the right spot. Oliver never saw again. 

With milky eyes, weepy, swollen, absolutely blind, Oliver went back to the luxurious house by the ocean that Quidditch had bought him. He went to sit alone, to wait for the salty air to erode the house to bits, to himself be eaten by the ocean's roar. Quidditch, for so long, was all that he had made important. Quidditch, his best friend. Quidditch his wife, mother, and child. 

Now nothing. Gone. He was a dead soul. All that was left was to wait for his body to follow.

When Percy called on him, Oliver still wore his Quidditch robes, stained with his own blood, his hands squeezing the kneepads, squeezing, squeezing. It made Percy sick. Oliver shared this nervous habit with Fred, the white knuckles, the tight jaw. It was only after George died that Fred did it, as if knee-squeezing was the Mark of a dead man, the dead trying to knead, knead themselves back to life. 

Oliver had been sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. The window was thrown wide; he faced the cold air and roaring waves. Even so, the stench of blood and filth was enough to kill Lord Voldemort himself. 

Pity Lord Voldemort sent Percy instead.

"Voldemort can bring back your sight." Percy told Oliver without first announcing himself, standing behind Oliver's chair, willing his voice to be strong, unrecognizably strong. "He can restore your youth, if your join us."

"You're a fool." Oliver said. "And the lapdog of a fool." 

Percy's nodded; his secret agreement. 

"Why?" asked Oliver. He didn't even try to turn to the sound of Percy's voice.

__

Why what? Percy had wanted to ask, but he knew why what. He walked around the chair to face Oliver, holding out his hands as if begging."He-he tells me the truth. He can give you whatever you want. It's amazing. He brings the dead back." 

"A fine promise." Oliver leaned back slightly, squinting the useless eyes. Seemed to think deeply of something. 

"You'll see again, Oliver," Percy said, "You'll see ten times better than you ever did." 

"_What_ will I see?" Oliver demanded. He yelled not at Percy, but at the crashing sea. "_What is worth seeing, _Percy? Answer me that. Tell me what is worth seeing." 

Percy bowed his head. 

The milky eyes were weeping now. Small sobs. "_When? _Tell me _when _will I see?"

"When you have proved yourself." 

"PROVED MYSELF? Proved _what_ of myself, Percy? Proved that my life has ended prematurely? That I haven't a _goddamn_ thing left to live for but I'm too afraid to _just fucking die_?"

"But if you can see, there _will _be a reason to live."

"Ah," Oliver said, sitting back. "I will see again when I prove that I am a fool." 

Percy closed his eyes. "Yes." 

"A fool like you." 

"Yes." 

Suddenly Oliver was laughing. He laughed and slapped his thick kneepads. He groped for his broomstick, lying at his side like a loyal pet. A worn spear of hopelessness, the broom whistled out the window toward the sea, greeting it, Percy was sure, with quiet dignity. 

"Give me your arm, Head Boy." 

At first Voldemort had been very pleased with Oliver. Oliver could not gaze upward, could not look forward to a brighter future; for him there was only the surrounding blackness and the ripe odor of old blood. 

But what Voldemort hated, Percy saw immediately, was that no fear existed in Oliver Wood, not of what lay before him, behind, or ahead. He was not born evil or scared evil, nor beaten into trembling submission like Percy. No, Oliver charged into that throne-like chair as if it were Quaffle-bearing opposition, as if he expected the Dark Mark alone to repair his blindness. But not his life, he knew that could never be repaired, and that was what made him different from the other Death Eaters. Master had been right. Oliver never got the hang of it. He asked too many whys and what-fors. He talked back and merely flinched when hit with curses. 

Then last night became the last straw. Percy has regained consciousness just as they were dragging Sean away. He was growling, biting himself, dripping blood all over the floor. Oliver stood and shouted: "EAT YOURSELF ALL UP, WOLFBOY! A BETTER FATE THAN THIS! _I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL-" _

Oliver's last words. Voldemort murdered him without hesitation, not with a wand but his own horrible hands. Terrified but motionless, Percy and his fellow Death Eaters watched as Voldemort shed his old skin … and then Oliver stood and looked round to all of them with eyes no longer blind. Voldemort ordered his old body taken away, laughing… "I told you that you would see again, Oliver, my impatient boy." 

The mere memory of Voldemort's voice dragged Percy back to the present. "What do you want… Master?" 

Voldemort produced a scroll from his robes and released the end. It rolled down and down and down, onto the floor and under the bed. Percy saw that there were dozens- _hundreds_ of signatures on it. He waited for his Master to produce a quill and parchment, but his Master just stood there, the same horrible grin on his face. 

"Percy, my dear," he said dangerously. 

"Yes?" 

"Get up." 

"What- what are you going to do?" 

"It's a surprise. Up you get." Voldemort smiled. He tapped the scroll once; it rolled up and up and up.

__

I know some of you were probably expecting the story to end with this chapter. Sorry. There's just too much going on. How long? Don't know. Could be one chapter, could be five. Two long ones is my guess. Thanks for your patience J s


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